


It's A Long Way Back To Baker Street

by thatssoravenreyes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatssoravenreyes/pseuds/thatssoravenreyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a body turns up, killed in the signature style of the murderer Sherlock caught only the day before, Scotland Yard has to face the possibility that they may have caught the wrong man. But finding the truth isn't going to be easy - especially after the killer abducts Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Impossible Victim

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't own Sherlock or any related characters. This work is for entertainment purposes only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of short. I wanted it to end at a specific place - hopefully the next chapter will be longer :-)

_Tuesday, 12th April 2011_

"I want a  _case_ ," Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade, who had come to Baker Street to inform Sherlock that they'd arrested George Reilly McCabe just a few hours ago, rolled his eyes. "You just  _solved_ one," he reminded Sherlock. "This morning."

McCabe was the youngest of three brothers, one of which was dead and the other of which he hadn't seen since age twelve, and recently he'd killed three men over a period of two months. Lestrade had come to Sherlock as soon as Joseph Kyle, the third victim, had disappeared, and then Kyle had turned up dead, and a week after that Sherlock had told Lestrade that the killer was a man named George McCabe. It had taken almost another week to locate McCabe and then arrest him.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "I did, but - as you said - that was this morning."

Lestrade glanced at John, who shrugged and carried on reading his newspaper. "Right," he said, "I'll call you if we get another homicide."

Smiling widely - and slightly creepily, if Lestrade was being honest - Sherlock said, "Thank you, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded and decided it was time to leave. Saying his goodbyes to Sherlock and John, he headed down the stairs and closed the door to 221B behind him. Just as the door thudded against the frame, his phone rang, a soft yet shrill sound emanating from the pocket of his dark suit jacket.

He pulled it out. "Lestrade," he answered automatically.

"It's Sally," the voice on the other end informed him. "Look, you need to get over to Cloth Street. There's been another one."

"Cloth Street?"Lestrade questioned. "Wait - another what?"

He heard Sally inhale on the other end. "It's in Smithfield. Pretty near Bart's," she told him. "And...another murder. Another like McCabe's." She paused for a second. "Well, attempted murder. He's at Bart's."

Lestrade was silent for a minute. "McCabe's?" he questioned. But... McCabe had been behind bars since this morning - there's no way he could have killed and dumped someone else. It was impossible. Another victim was impossible. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure," Sally told him. "Just get here as soon as you can." And she hung up.

Lestrade shoved the phone back into his pocket. He hesitated for only half a second before bursting straight back into 221B. He hurried up the stairs to where Sherlock and John were bickering over - oh, it didn't matter what. They looked up as he entered.

"Back so soon?" Sherlock asked, his smile widening as he realised what this meant. "Excellent."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, his voice serious, "are you sure McCabe was the right guy?"

* * *

The crime scene had held nothing of interest, as far as Sherlock was concerned, so they had headed to the hospital to check on the victim's condition.

Harris Beck lay in the clean, white bed, his pale blond hair like a halo around his battered head. He was unconscious, and the nurses had told them he wasn't going to wake up for at least a few more hours, due to the pain medication they'd put him on.

John, as a doctor, was allowed in to do a quick external examination of Beck. "He was tortured," he told Lestrade, pulling one of Beck's arms above the sheet. It was covered in scars. Knife wounds, like the others. The face had not been left untouched - red ribbons lay across his cheek, delicately balanced on his nose, like grisly decorations - but the arms bore the worst of the wounds.

Tucking Beck's arm back under the sheets, John went to check the machine. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. How had John not noticed -?

"This wasn't a copycat," he announced.

Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock. "Do I get an explanation?"

Sherlock nodded. "The journalist woman - Kitty Riley. The one who came to the scene to try and interview me. She got a picture of Joseph Kyle's hand. The scar."

"I'm sure Detective Lestrade completely understands your explanation," Sally said sarcastically, "but I don't. Care to explain some more, freak?"

"So, she published it," Sherlock continued, rolling his eyes. "A copycat would copy every and any detail they could find - but Beck doesn't have the scar."

Lestrade nodded. "Maybe he didn't think it was that important? Or he didn't see Riley's article?"

"No," Sherlock said, rejecting both of Lestrade's suggestions at the same time. "Everything was important. Every other detail was right, however minor. If this was a copycat, he would have had to research, to find out everything he could before he killed."

"Okay," Lestrade said, "an accomplice?"

"The only possibility," Sherlock agreed. "The scar on the victims' hands mirrors the only injury George McCabe sustained the day his brother died. That's his part of the signature. Everything else -" He gestured to the unconscious Beck. "- they do together."

"Yeah, but," Sally interrupted, "how are we sure it's not a copycat? He could have just... Missed something. People do that sometimes, you know."

Sherlock glared at her. He'd already explained this. "Every other detail was right," he reminded her. "The oldest of his scars is three days old, which is how long the other victims were kept for. He was found without a single item of his possessions with him - probably everything was dumped at the abductuon scene, just like the other victims; the killer never takes anything but them. Details never mentioned in the press. And yet, he manages to miss the one detail that _was_  mentioned?"

Sally scowled at him. "Show off."

John, who had been checking something in Beck's mouth, turned to face Sherlock. "There are knife marks in the back of his throat," he said, glancing at Sally and then back to Sherlock. "As far as I remember, nobody's mentioned that one in the papers either."

Staring at John, Sally opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to decide differently. Instead, she looked at Lestrade for direction, as John went back to checking Beck's throat.

"I'm going outside," Sherlock announced. "I need some fresh air."

He left the room, shutting the door behind him, and headed outside. John hadn't noticed he'd started up smoking again; Sherlock wondered vaguely what his friend would say if he knew.  _Stop_ , probably.

He lit up, leaning against the wall as he did so. A minute or so later, as he was enjoying the calmness outside and the bitter taste of his cigarette, a plain white van pulled up in the car park. He paid little attention to it; most likely, it was someone come to check on an injured friend or relative.

He sucked in again, enjoying the rich, bitter taste as it spiralled down his throat, and stared at the sky. It was blue, an innocent colour, often associated with young children. And almost cloudless; only a few whisps of cottony, white cloud could be seen.

The stranger from the van brushed up against Sherlock on his way to the door, and Sherlock was about to protest when he noticed the black ski mask and the sharp needle point pressed to the side of his neck.

"Sherlock Holmes," the stranger said. "I was hoping you'd be here."

And he pressed the needle plunger down.

Sherlock was falling. Falling down, down, down. Falling like rain from the clouds, or rocks from a cliff. He was falling. That was all he knew.

He hit the ground only a split second later, head throbbing, heart thudding painfully, the blue sky above him slowly fading away into darkness. His eyes pushed closed, though he fought - and fought hard - to keep them open. It became harder to hear, to see, to feel anything. It became harder to fight. Harder and harder, until it was impossible not to give up, and he slipped away.

He was engulfed by nothingness. And, eventually, he embraced it.


	2. Dear Little Missing Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've currently written the first seven - and a bit - chapters of this, so we're good going for a while. The next chapter is over 3,000 words :-) And I've been wanting to post this since last Friday. It's a relief to finally publish it, but I'm sticking to schedule.
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapter applies.

_Tuesday, 12th April 2011_

"Hey, Sherlock?" John called as he stepped outside. Sherlock had been gone for nearly twenty minutes, and he was getting slightly worried.

Lestrade was right behind him, followed by Sally; they'd done all they could do for now, at the hospital. The wind outside blew Sally's hair a little, but she didn't react. Lestrade looked around a little, expecting Sherlock to be right there, waiting for them, but he wasn't.

John disappeared from Lestrade's side, making the DI jump a little. And then Lestrade was running after John, seeing exactly what he did, under a tree in the central part of the car park.

A pile of clothes. A dark coat, dirtied and covered in mud from the base of the tree. A scarf, hanging from a branch, waving in the wind in a manner far too cheery for the current situation. Sherlock's entire outfit, everything he'd had on him, was bundled up in a messy pile underneath the thriving, green tree.

"Sherlock," John whispered in disbelief, bending down to pick up the packet of cigarettes half-fallen out of the pile. Lestrade grabbed his shoulder before he could do so.

"John," he said in a cautioning voice, his mind on the evidence that could lead to Sherlock's abductor. "Don't."

Nodding, John stepped back, eyes still fixed on the sight before him. But Sherlock... Sherlock had caught the bastard! Sherlock had  _caught_ him!

This was impossible. This couldn't be happening.

This couldn't be -

But it was.

"Sally, call it in. And call Anderson," Lestrade ordered, the detective in him coming forward. "Tell him to bring a forensics team."

Pulling her police radio out, Sally did as he asked. She walked a few steps away from where John and Lestrade stood before she began talking, though. "This is Sergeant Donovan. We have a situation here at St. Bart's..."

John turned his head away from the pile of Sherlock's clothes. "Three days," he said to Lestrade. "That's how long they held the others for. So, we have three days."

Closing his eyes, Lestrade nodded. "That might not be long enough."

Without speaking, each knew what the other was thinking.  _It has to be._

* * *

It was dark.

Very dark.

Extremely dark.

Almost pitch black - so very almost. But not quite. Light, dim and yellowed, shone through a crack to his right. A slit in the darkness, as if it had been created by a knife blade. A glowing ribbon. A trail of light.

The light was bright enough that he could make out the silhouette of a man in front of him. The stranger from the van, he assumed. Who else could it be?

The silhouette moved closer to his face, becoming more invisible as it did so. "You're awake," it mused.

Sherlock turned his head away from the voice, disgusted by how close it was to him. He didn't want the silhouette near him. He wanted it away. Further away. He wanted to be back at the hospital, where he was safe, and the silhouette didn't come close and whisper words into his ear.

"No, no no no," the silhouette murmured, his fingers pressing into Sherlock's chin and turning it back to face him.

Sherlock tried to swallow.

The silhouette continued. "I want you to look at me, little detective boy," he said. "Just look at me, and listen." He paused there. Sherlock vaguely wished he could see better.

"L'me go," he growled. His words were slurred, pushing together in strange places. A fading memory came to the front of his mind. A syringe pressed into his neck. Falling into darkness. He'd been drugged.

Laughter came from the silhouette. "Ah, no, little detective boy," he said. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

It was becoming more and more obvious to Sherlock how very cold it was. He was shivering, his teeth were chattering. His arms, pulled up and away from the rest of his body, presumably chained to the wall behind him, felt like ice.

It was freezing. Blood was running through his veins with the feel of ice. The cold, he was reminded, burnt in a way that no fire could.

"You know George was innocent, right?" the silhouette continued. Strange. He didn't seem to be nearly as cold as Sherlock was. Maybe he was wearing more layers. "It was me. All me. You got the wrong man, little detective boy."

He leant closer. Sherlock could feel the silhouette's lips against his ear, the brush of fabric against his bare chest...

Ah! So that was why he was so cold - the silhouette had stripped him of his clothing.

Sherlock was suddenly aware of how much of him was exposed, invisible as he was in the dark. He tried to curl in on himself, blood rushing to the surface of his skin, and he felt the strength of the chains against him, keeping him exactly where he was.

"To be honest," the silhouette whispered in his ear. He was uncomfortably close to Sherlock, his lips grazing against Sherlock's ear. "I'd have thought you wouldn't have slipped up so... _drastically._ The media made me overestimate you, Sherlock Holmes."

The silhouette pulled away then, and Sherlock was grateful for it, although it made the room seem so much colder. He needed his personal space.

It was barely seconds later that Sherlock felt the knife edge against his cheek. He knew the type of knife from the feel of it; trailing-point curved blade. The back edge curved upwards, making the knife optimised for slicing and slashing. The curved edge provided a larger cutting area, especially for a lightweight knife. The blade was common on skinning knives...

So the silhouette was a hunter?

"You know," the silhouette said, as the blade sliced open the skin on Sherlock's cheekbone, "I always enjoyed this part. Wondering how strong they are, how long it's going to be before they start screaming..."

He pressed the blade against Sherlock's cheek again, and the detective felt the blood running down his cheek in a thick stream. The cut wasn't deep - the initial ones never were, the oldest scars were almost healed by the time the bodies came to Molly's table - but it was painful. Sherlock's face spasmed, but he made no noise.

The silhouette paused, the pressure of the blade against Sherlock's face decreasing. The tip of the knife trailed thoughtfully across the detective's cheek, not leaving a mark. "Hm," he remarked. "Normally they make some kind of noise at this point. A small yelp. A gasp." A finger touched Sherlock's nose. "I suppose, though, that you are much more accustomed to violence, little detective boy."

The knife moved downwards, trailing across the sensitive skin on Sherlock's neck, and he felt his heart speed up in terror, pumping blood out faster, faster, faster... As if it were some kind of race. As if losing meant dying. As if, somehow, sending the blood round his veins at an increased rate would get him out of this nightmare.

The silhouette poked the tip of the blade in, gently, not drawing blood, where the drugs had been administered...earlier? Yesterday? Last week? Sherlock suddenly realised he had no idea how long he had been here, how much time had passed already.

The victims were kept for only three days, he reminded himself. The knife wounds started almost immediately, from what Molly and himself could tell. That ruled out everything except  _earlier._  He couldn't have been here long.

Unless, somehow, he was special to this mysterious silhouette?

Mentally, he scoffed at himself. He had no reason to believe that he was somehow different from the other victims. No reason to believe that, for whatever reason, things would be different for him. From the way things were looking now, it was going to be exactly the same.

 _Except for the fact that I was taken the day of George McCabe's arrest_ , Sherlock thought.  _Except for the fact that this killer seems to be speeding up, devolving; he took me the day he dumped Harris Beck, not weeks later. McCabe's arrest changed his timeline. And he took someone close to Scotland Yard...he knows I'm a detective...I was targeted._

 _I was targeted_.

The knife was resting on Sherlock's shoulder now, in the dip created by the position the chains forced him to be in. The silhouette pushed down. Blood spilled. "Is that warm?" the silhouette asked. "You need warming up, little detective boy. You're freezing."

As if the silhouette's comment reminded him of the constant, cruel cold, Sherlock shivered violently as he felt the blood trickle down his back. Not much blood. Just a little. The silhouette was going slow.

"I bet George is freezing, too," the silhouette commented, as he traced lines into Sherlock's arm. "In that little jail cell they're keeping him in. Heating's not a priority for prisoners, I don't suppose. Not at Scotland Yard."

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but as soon as he did so, he felt the blade of the knife touch his lips. "Nu-uh," the silhouette warned. "I talk, little detective boy. You just listen."

The blade disappeared from Sherlock's lips and pressed into his arm instead, cutting a shallow incision there. "Now George, he didn't do anything wrong," the silhouette continued. "Just did as I asked. He was a good boy. Like you. You're a good little detective boy, aren't you, Sherlock Holmes?"

A hand rested in Sherlock's hair for a moment, the knife gripped in it, but not tightly. As if it was stroking Sherlock's head. As if he was a puppy, a pet of some kind. Sherlock focused on his too-quick breathing –  _keep it steady, inhale, exhale, don't panic, don't panic_...

"Except for one thing," the silhouette continued. The hand disappeared. Sherlock waited for the blade's reappearance on his arm, but it did not come. "You put Georgie in jail, Sherlock Holmes. You did that. And Georgie doesn't deserve to go to jail."

With that, the silhouette disappeared, and Sherlock was left to his thoughts, in the freezing cold. He wondered if anyone was looking for him yet. They must be. They must have realised what had happened by now. They must be searching.

John would be so worried... He was so human. Too human. He cared too much. Even about Sherlock, which was one of the few things that had ever confused the consulting detective. Nobody cared about Sherlock...

He shivered again in the cold.

The cold...

It reminded him of something, from a long time ago. A dusty forest floor, a young, almost-teenaged boy with a mess of curly hair and tears in his blue-green eyes. A boy who'd resorted to running away from boarding school to get away from the people who tortured him there.

It was so different, and yet so much the same. The cold. The wondering who was searching. It was all the same...

He remembered back to that little missing boy, camped out in the forest with nothing but sheets and some snacks, thinking he knew enough to survive, on the first night. Oh, what an adventure it was! What a way to get away from the boringness, the torture, of everyday life! What a way to finally be by himself, do what he wanted, without anyone or anything getting in his way!

Oh, little missing boy... Being missing isn't so fun as all that.

* * *

"Detective Lestrade," the Chief Superintendant called, as Lestrade made to leave the room; he had been summoned to the Chief's office to explain the current situation. "I want the case closed. ASAP. Find Sherlock Holmes. And please try not to get too much bad publicity."

Lestrade nodded. "Noted, Chief Superintendant," he said, shutting the door behind him as he left. Unintentionally, he let it shut with a thud that was slightly louder than is polite.

Sally was waiting for him outside. She raised her eyebrows as Lestrade glanced back at the door in annoyance, and then looked to Sally and the file she carried under her left arm.

"You got something for me?" he questioned.

"I know you're worried about him," Sally said. "I would be, too."

Lestrade almost growled. Trust Sally to change the subject like that. "Yeah. I am," he told her. "And I won't be any less worried until you tell me you've got something."

Sally sighed and handed over the file she was holding. "Forensics came back on Sherlock's clothes," she informed him as he scanned the file. "Some fibres got caught on the coat, but they're the same as before. The same work gloves, most likely."

"So you've got nothing," Lestrade said. "Because those are the same fibres that led us to George McCabe. They're work gloves, they're sold at the gardening shop where McCabe works as a cleaner."

Exhaling sharply, Lestrade handed the file back to Sally. She searched his face for a long moment.

"Look, I'm sorry," she said eventually. "I...I can't say I want to find him as much as you do. But still, this is all we've got, and wanting to find him more, or less, or whatever - that doesn't change that."

Lestrade nodded. "I know, Sally," he said. "I know that." And, with that, he turned and walked down the corridor, leaving her with the file.

* * *

John was wandering around outside the glass front doors of Scotland Yard. He wanted to go in, talk to Lestrade, but he was afraid of what he might be told. That they had nothing, absolutely nothing to go on.

Or, worse, they could tell him that they'd found something, but he might need to sit down, the news wasn't good...

He kicked a low brick wall which bordered a flowerbed.

"John."

Spinning around to face the direction the voice had come from, John saw Lestrade coming towards him. "Oh," he said, as the man came to a halt in front of John. "Hi. Greg. Hi."

"I saw you from inside," Lestrade explained. "You looked as if you might want to talk to someone."

John half-nodded. "I guess." He looked up at Lestrade. "Just... Just warn me if there's bad news."

"No news," Lestrade informed him, shaking his head. "Just what Sherlock said." John winced at the sound of the name, and Lestrade hurried to correct himself. "Just that whoever... He must be an accomplice of McCabe's. They used the same gloves. Most likely the exact same pair, according to Donovan."

Looking down, John swallowed. "So nothing," he summed up.

"Yeah," Lestrade admitted, his resent for the situation coming through in his tone.

John continued staring at the ground. The grey-white pavement seemed to stare back at him, taunting him.  _Sherlock's being tortured, Sherlock's being tortured_ , it sang.  _Sherlock's going to dieeeee..._

Eventually, John gave up on staring the paving slabs down, and closed his eyes. But the song continued, far too cheerful, far too happily.

"John."

He looked up when Lestrade said his name. "Yes?"

"We'll find him, John," Lestrade promised, despite the fact that both of them knew it was a promise Lestrade might not be able to keep.

John nodded emptily. A half second later, Lestrade's arms reached out and pulled John into a much needed, almost reassuring, embrace.


	3. Skin and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies. Next update will be next Thursday, as usual. Comments/kudos etc. are very much appreciated :-)

_Wednesday, 13th April 2011_

Sherlock was half asleep when the door opened. A rush of cold air glided in, and he shivered, his eyes snapping open as the stranger climbed into the small space and shut the door behind him.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, my little detective boy," he said, grinning, as he became just a silhouette once again. "Isn't it wonderful!"

Sherlock shuddered.

The silhouette laughed, reaching up to unattach the giant metal frame, which Sherlock was chained to, from the ceiling. "We're going to have some fun now, Sherlock," he declared, lying Sherlock down on the floor. Sherlock struggled against the chains that bound him, but with little success.

"Ah, don't try that," the silhouette complained dryly. "It makes an awful racket. Not that anyone will hear you."

Sherlock felt the knife blade press softly against the back of his neck. It didn't draw blood, not yet; but Sherlock could feel the blood on the knife. From earlier. It wasn't moist, so it had had time to coagulate. But blood could do that in twenty minutes. It didn't really give him a timeline.

The silhouette pushed down on the knife. Blood trickled in tiny rivers down the side of Sherlock's neck, onto his jaw. Some found its way into his mouth. It tasted rich, like metal mixed with a warm, hazy summer's day in Southern France.

Sherlock grunted. His mind was warm and hazy. Were the drugs still in effect? He'd thought they'd worn off already...

The knife trailed down his spine, slicing his skin open as it did so.

"Who are you?" he muttered. "Why are you -" The silhouette pushed down on the knife, which had reached around midway down his back. He pushed it in deeper than he'd pushed it so far, but still not deep enough to create anything that would need immediate medical attention. Sherlock grunted again. "- Doing. This?"

"I thought I already told you," the silhouette whispered. Sherlock felt the chapped lips by his ear again. "Georgie's innocent. You caught him. This is retribution."

"No," Sherlock murmured, turning his head to the side – to face the silhouette, this time. He still couldn't see the man's face. "There's more. Isn't there?"

The silhouette moved away. Sherlock felt the knife nick the underneath of his foot. He tried to jerk it away, but the chains held his ankle steady. The silhouette simply laughed.

"Does there have to be more?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "But there is."

The silhouette was silent. "I want Georgie back," he admitted. "You're leverage, little detective boy. A kind of...bargaining chip against Scotland Yard, if you will. That's what the people in the movies call it."

Sherlock considered this for a long moment. The knife traced patterns into his foot, and he tried his best to ignore it. "Well, that makes sense," he muttered eventually.

The silhouette didn't reply. The knife continued along its path.

"Except," Sherlock said, after a minute or two had passed. "Georgie."

The knife stopped, but didn't move away. "Georgie?" the silhouette questioned, wondering where Sherlock might be going with this.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Yes," he said. "Georgie is a nickname, and where I doubt a grown man would go by that name - a grown killer much less - it would be much more common for a child to use it. Therefore, you would have known him as a child – you started using that name when you and George were younger, and you simply never stopped. Most likely, you're the only one who he allows to call him that.

"The McCabes were home-schooled by their uncle, and even after George went into foster care he refused to attend school, so it's unlikely you're a childhood friend. In fact, there's only one person you could be, since the middle McCabe brother died when George was twelve. You were fifteen, yes, Edward?"

The silhouette didn't respond for a long time. The knife stayed steady against Sherlock's foot at first, but after a moment moved away.

That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed.

"You got all that from  _Georgie_?" Edward asked incredulously.

Sherlock laughed. "It's amazing, isn't it? The ways in which a killer can slip up."

The knife appeared again, pushing deeper now. Edward was holding it with more tension, more force. He hadn't expected the little detective boy to figure out who he was. After all, he was supposed to have lost contact with his youngest brother after...

After  _that day_.

But no matter, no matter. There was no way he could tell his friends at Scotland Yard, Edward reminded himself. And it was unlikely they could figure it out by themselves. They'd become so accustomed to having Sherlock Holmes for these things...

"Do you miss him?" Sherlock murmured.

Edward paused. "What?"

"Robert," the detective clarified. "Your poor little brother. Little Robert, never reached his fourteenth birthday. This is how he died, isn't it? You and George, you were there. You ended up in hospital, Georgie ended up in foster care."

Edward growled. "Don't talk about that," he ordered. The knife pushed in deeper, slicing through the skin of Sherlock's leg easier than if it were butter. "You weren't there. You don't know what happened."

"Oh, I know more than you think," Sherlock said, in a voice that suggested they were talking about different kinds of coffee, while sitting in a little cafe somewhere in central London. "I've read your file, Edward. And I don't just see. I observe."

"Yeah, so my uncle cut my brother to pieces. He beat me up. When Georgie tried to intervene, my uncle pushed him out of the room and locked the door."

Silence. The knife trailed up the back of Sherlock's leg, and back down again, creating a row of incisions side by side.

"I think," Sherlock said after a long while, "that we both know that's not what happened."

Sherlock felt the knife disappear from his leg, and barely a second later, it was embedded in his upper arm. He couldn't stop the yell that came from his mouth as the pain pierced his body and invaded his shoulder like a tiny, unimaginably fast, army.

Edward leant over so that he was as close as he could get to facing Sherlock, whose left cheek was pressed against the floor. "That's," he growled menacingly. "What. Happened."

* * *

The body of Joseph Kyle lay on the table in front of Molly. To her left, the autopsy reports of James Alexander and Erik Bergmann - the first two victims of George McCabe and whoever his accomplice was - lay on another table, since their bodies had already been collected by their families.

There was nothing.

She'd hoped that, by going over her previous examinations, by looking at the evidence she'd discovered when the bodies were first found, she might found something new. Something she'd missed the first time over.

All she'd found though, was the same evidence she'd had before, and the same conclusions she'd come up with. Everything led back to George McCabe. Nothing even suggested he'd had an accomplice.

The DNA on the bodies belonged to McCabe and nobody else. There was a one in around a billion chance that the DNA of McCabe's accomplice matched that of McCabe. The chances were slightly improved if the accomplice was a relative of some kind, but still impossibly slim. Sherlock probably knew the exact numbers...

No. More likely, the accomplice was more careful not to get his DNA on the bodies than George. Possibly, he knew more about forensics. But why not make sure George wasn't touching their victims?

And then there was the fibres. Any she'd found had been from the gloves from the shop George worked at; the shop sold supplies for outdoor work, such as gardening and such. Even things like pellets and air rifles for pigeon hunting were on sale.

Even the type of blade – trailing-point curved blade. Commonly found on hunting knives, useful for skinning. Also sold in the shop George worked at.

Anything and everything on the bodies led back to George. Almost as if...

_Oh._

George McCabe was not the killer. George McCabe was the accomplice, the helper. And, above all, the fall guy. Whoever he'd been helping had no doubt told him that he'd get him out if something happened. Promised that nothing would go wrong. Promised that it would be better this way, easier for them to evade the police. Somehow convinced George of this.

Somehow, the killer had convinced George to place physical evidence on the body in such a way that it would only lead back to George, and not the real killer.

Just then, the door opened, and Lestrade walked in. He noticed Molly's expression immediately. "What is it?"

"He's clever," she said. "One of the most intelligent killers we've seen."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "How so?"

"George McCabe didn't have an accomplice," Molly explained. "He  _was_  the accomplice. And, the scapegoat." She gestured to the autopsy reports in front of her. "All the evidence points to him, and him alone. The killer's been careful not to get his own DNA on the bodies."

"Are you saying McCabe might actually be innocent?" Lestrade questioned.

Molly considered this for a second. "It's a possibility, I suppose," she admitted. "But I still think he's involved. There's got to be a reason the killer chose him as a fall guy."

Lestrade nodded.

"So that would mean our biggest clue is McCabe himself," Molly mused. "Doesn't change anything. He was already our biggest clue." She swallowed and looked up at Lestrade, her arms crossing and her hands gripping her elbows. "It doesn't get us any closer to finding Sherlock."

Lestrade looked down, trying to find something to say, but nothing came to mind. Molly was silent, too, her eyes flicking from the body to the autopsy reports and back to the body. There had to be something,  _anything_.

But she'd already looked. She'd looked a thousand times, it felt like. And there was nothing.

"I'm worried about Sherlock," she blurted out.

Lestrade's eyes met hers for a brief second. "We all are, Molly."

* * *

"John," Mrs. Hudson said, "eat something."

John looked up. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food, presumably for him. "I'm fine," he lied. "Thanks."

Sherlock's chair sat empty in front of him. It's been nearly eighteen hours since Sherlock went missing. Eighteen of the seventy-two hours they had to find him had passed, and they had nothing. That was a quarter of their time. Twenty-five percent. Another fifty-four hours and Sherlock would be dead. They'd be finding his body in an alley somewhere, cold and naked, covered in scars that started off shallow and eventually became deep enough that he'd bled to death.

"John," Mrs. Hudson said again.

She didn't continue, and after a moment or two, John was forced to say, "Yes?"

"They haven't found anything, have they?"

John shook his head, wishing he could tell her otherwise. Not because he didn't want her to be disappointed, but because he wanted Sherlock back as much as she did, and he didn't want to have nothing, because that meant that they were no closer to finding Sherlock than they were eighteen hours ago.

"They will," Mrs. Hudson said, and John admired the conviction in her voice. "Lestrade is a good detective. I heard Sherlock compliment him once."

"Yeah," John agreed. "Lestrade's good."  _But not as good as Sherlock_ , he finished in his head.

* * *

The CCTV footage showed them nothing.

It appeared that Sherlock had been chosen randomly. He'd been smoking for less than two minutes when a white van entered the hospital car park, and a man in a ski mask climbed out. It took him thirty seconds to incapacitate Sherlock, who, it appeared, had been paying more attention to his cigarette than anything else. He then carried Sherlock back to his van, pulling him inside. Less than a minute later, Sherlock's possessions were thrown out, the scarf catching on a tree branch as the rest of the things fell to the muddy ground, and the man in the ski mask got out, climbed into the driver's seat, and drove off.

"Where," said Anderson, "were the people watching the security cameras?"

Sally shrugged. "Probably missed it. The guy was pretty quick."

"He's wearing a  _ski mask_ ," Anderson pointed out. "I'm pretty sure they're trained to watch out for suspicious things like that."

"Yeah," Sally agreed, "and we're trained to catch murderers, but half the time, Sherlock does it for us."

Anderson turned back to the CCTV footage. "He had to know Sherlock was outside. That Sherlock was in a vulnerable position. He was probably watching somehow."

"Or," Sally said, "he drove in, and Sherlock happened to be outside."

Shaking his head, Anderson said, "I don't think he was a victim of opportunity. You don't kidnap Sherlock Holmes by mistake."

Sally raised her eyebrows. "So you're saying that – what? This guy -" She jabbed a finger at the blurry figure of the masked man on the screen in front of them. "- paid off the security people to tell him when Sherlock was outside, and to 'not notice' when he got kidnapped?"

Anderson considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "That's not impossible," he said. "Actually, quite a good theory."

* * *

"Something needs to be done about Dumanovsky," James Lyndon said. "The future of sheep farming in Shropshire is at stake. Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft rubbed his hairline, and shook his head. He had no idea what should be done about the Russian named Dumanovsky, and sheep farming seemed like such a trivial matter right now. The government had let so many other things slip away, why not sheep farming? It wasn't as if the economy was in shining condition anyway. One more thing couldn't do too much damage.

"Mr. Holmes?" Lyndon asked again.

Mycroft looked up at him, and shook his head again. "I don't have anything yet, Mr. Lyndon."

Lyndon – and the rest of the room – looked extremely surprised. It wasn't often that Mycroft had nothing.

The truth was, of course, that Mycroft was far more worried about his brother than he liked to let on. He glanced at his watch; it was just over eighteen hours since Sherlock had been taken. He was trying to act as if he trusted Scotland Yard to find his brother, but, in truth, he knew how much help they got from Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was often their best chance at catching a killer. And they might not be able to catch this one without him.

The next hour passed slowly. Mycroft attempted to pay attention to what Lyndon and Johneson and Whitford and everyone else was saying, but his mind kept skipping back to Sherlock.

The meeting ended when it had been nineteen hours and twenty-one minutes since Sherlock's abduction. In other words, it was midday.

Anthea was waiting for him outside the meeting hall. "You look preoccupied," she observed as she saw him.

Mycroft sighed. "I am trying not to worry too much about my brother," he told her.

She watched him for a moment, considering. "You can't just  _not worry_  about someone," she said eventually. "And, Mr. Holmes, nobody would blame you for taking some personal time at this point."

It was something Mycroft had thought of, very briefly, that morning. He had immediately rejected the idea, but he was growing more and more worried about Sherlock. He hated to show any kind of feeling towards his brother, but Sherlock  _was_  family, and he knew Anthea was right. So, he nodded to her, and half an hour later he was driving towards Scotland Yard.

* * *

"Now," Edward said, reappearing in the extremely small space Sherlock was being held in. "Are you going to behave, little detective boy?"

Sherlock looked up at him. "Depends," he replied. "Are you going to tell me how long I've been here?"

Narrowing his eyes, Edward reached behind him for something. "I can see not," he said. "I hate to do this, Sherlock. It goes against my usual method. But, if you're not going to shut up..."

He sealed a piece of tape across Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock grunted, flexing his mouth; the tape was uncomfortable. Nothing compared to the wound in his shoulder, of course, but uncomfortable.

Just then, the knife was yanked out of Sherlock's body, and he felt the rush of blood as it fled his veins. It ran down his arm and dripped onto the floor, joining with the dried blood of all the McCabe brothers' previous victims.

Sherlock tried to yell in pain, but the tape did not allow it. "Sorry," Edward apologised, "but I need this."

Surprisingly – at least to Sherlock – the next thing he felt was a cloth on his arm. Edward was tightly wrapping a bandage around the wound on his shoulder. To stop him losing too much blood, Sherlock realised. To make sure he didn't die before...

Oh. He should have noticed that. He should have seen that Beck's survival didn't make sense; Edward was too careful about the amount of blood he let out.

Edward leant over, nicking the knife over the end of Sherlock's earlobe. Blood, more blood, pooled from the wound. It took Sherlock a moment to realise Edward had taken some of the skin from his ear.

He twisted his head around enough that he could see Edward drop the piece of skin into a small, clear plastic bag; the light from the gap is bright enough that he could just make this out. And then Edward left.

* * *

"George McCabe wasn't in the room when his brother died," Lestrade was explaining to Mycroft, who'd come in half an hour ago to see him. "His uncle had pushed him out of the room and locked the door earlier that day. That's how he sustained the wound on his hand; the knife in his uncle's hand cut him."

Mycroft nodded. "George was recreating his brother's murder from what he saw in that room," he said.

"Yes," Lestrade said. "He only saw a glimpse, but I doubt he'd ever forget it."

Mycroft thought about this for a second, and then asked, "What happened to the other brother? Edward?"

"He and George haven't seen each other since their brother died," Lestrade informed him. "Actually, once George entered foster care, he requested that he never see his brother again. I very much doubt that he's the accomplice."

Just then, the door opened, and Sally entered. "Some kid just dropped this off for you," she said. "He looked pretty scared. Said the ski mask man would kill the bleeding man if he didn't give this to Detective Lestrade."

Mycroft looked down at the mention of the 'bleeding man,' and Sally handed the envelope to Lestrade, who took it and opened it very carefully. He made sure not to touch the envelope with his fingers, so that any evidence was left untouched.

When it was fully open, he glanced inside, and then tipped the contents onto his desk.

A small plastic bag – of the kind that is usually used to store food – lay on the table, the top of it tied into a knot to stop the contents escaping. It contained a thick red liquid, which lay in tiny rivers in the crumpled folds of the bag. In the bottom corner, Lestrade could see a small fragment of skin. He shuddered, knowing it most likely belonged to Sherlock.

Next to the bag was a small piece of card with a message typed on it:

_GEORGE IS INNOCENT. LET HIM GO. OR ELSE YOU WILL NEVER SEE SHERLOCK HOLMES AGAIN._


	4. The Evidence Never Lies

_Thursday, 14th April 2011_

"There's nothing," Molly announced.

"Nothing," John repeated. "Great."

Molly looked up at him with sympathy in her eyes. "Sorry," she said, "but he was careful. There's no DNA, no foreign fibres at all. They used candle wax, which – while it's not the most efficient thing to use for a seal – is pretty easy to get a hold of, and it did the job. The stamp they used is common, has no pattern on it, and can be found in many stationary stores. Same goes for the envelope and paper. And he used Times New Roman font." She glared at the carefully laid out evidence in front of her. "It's like he's trying to be as one-dimensional as possible. Everything's so  _generic_."

John nodded resignedly. "So he's good. He's good at..." He tipped his head toads where Molly had the evidence laid out. " _This_."

He took a deep breath, and, shaking his head, stood up. He couldn't be in here, with Molly telling him they had nothing and Lestrade looking in his direction with pity in his eyes. Not that Lestrade didn't understand what he was going through; Lestrade cared about Sherlock too. But they both knew it was so much worse for John.

Lestrade and Molly watched as John left the room, shutting the door behind him far too calmly.

"He's not doing well, is he?" Molly said.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Did you expect him to be?" he asked. "God, I wouldn't be, if it were my best friend." He looked at the door for a moment. "I better go make sure he's not fallen off the roof, or God knows what."

As the door shut behind Lestrade, Molly turned back to the evidence. She picked up the small tube containing some of Sherlock's blood in her gloved hand, and narrowed her eyes at it.

Blood coagulates in fifteen to twenty minutes under average conditions, and even trapped in the bag, it wouldn't take much longer; the back wasn't airproof, after all, and the blood could still have dried. By the time the blood had gotten to Bart's – twenty minutes, maximum, after Lestrade had opened it – it was still moist.

Molly did some quick calculations in her head. The killer couldn't have come from any further than the nearest edges of Brent or Camden, at a stretch. Most likely, Sherlock was still in the City of Westminster area of London.

Molly couldn't help but smile, if only a little, as she pulled out her phone to call Lestrade. Finally, she had something useful. Something that might help bring Sherlock home.

* * *

Mycroft was looking over the case file Lestrade had given him when Anthea walked in.

"Any luck, Sir?" she asked.

He shook his head, and looked up at her. "I apologise for my lack of enthusiasm for my work lately," he said. "It's just... My brother is quite possibly being tortured at this very moment. I cannot sit by and do nothing."

Anthea nodded. "It's understandable, Sir," she reminded him. "Do you want me to take a look?"

Mycroft considered this for a second, before deciding that an extra pair of eyes couldn't hurt. "Here," he said, handing over the file. Anthea flicked through it, her eyes focused, taking in the details. She stopped on the medical report for Harris Beck.

"Whoever did this has a significant knowledge of the human body," she stated, looking up at her boss. "The killers make sure the victim doesn't lose too much blood during the first two days. Sometimes enough to make them unconscious by the third day, but they never die until their time is up."

Nodding, Mycroft said, "Yes. I noticed that too."

"Don't you think it's suspicious that Beck survived, then?" Anthea asked. "And with blood to spare – there was no way he was going to die. He didn't lose nearly enough."

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed as he took the case file back from Anthea. "Are you saying that Harris Beck surviving wasn't an accident?" he questioned.

"Unless George McCabe was in charge of how much blood they let out," Anthea qualified. "Though I would think that, after three murders, his accomplice wouldn't be as far out as he was. I'd say Beck wasn't supposed to die."

Mycroft's eyes scanned the report. "If that's true," he said, "then why?"

After a moment of thought, Anthea said, "The crime scene was right next to St. Bart's," she stated. "Therefore, he would be taken to that hospital. And Sherlock was already on the case, meaning he'd go to talk to Beck at some point..."

"Thank you, Miss Serrington," Mycroft said, almost jumping out of his chair in his haste to leave. "Take care of business while I'm out, will you? I need to talk to Gre - Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Anthea nodded. "Consider it done," she assured him.

* * *

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway. John was sitting in his chair, thinking, going over every detail he could remember about Sherlock's case in his head. And he could remember all of it. And there was nothing that could lead him to Sherlock.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson said again, when John didn't respond. "John, your sister's here."

John looked up in surprise to see Harry standing a little behind Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. "Oh," he said. "Hello."

Harry walked into the room and made to sit on Sherlock's chair, but fortunately saw the look on John's face before she did so. "Sorry," she apologised, instead hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"You look well," John commented, truthfully. The bags under his sister's eyes were still as prominent as they had been the last time he'd seen her, but she looked awake. Her blond hair was pulled back into her usual ponytail, and she wore plain blue jeans with a red Coca-Cola jumper.

"You don't," she said.

The two siblings stayed silent for a few minutes. Harry sat down on the sofa, watching John carefully. Time passed slowly and awkwardly. Eventually, John said, "So, how's the drinking?" at almost the same time his sister spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

John closed his eyes, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "Talking to you hasn't exactly been...the biggest thing I have to worry about lately."

She nodded in understanding. "I know," she said softly. "I'm sorry, John."

More silence. The minutes passed slowly. Communication had always been difficult between the siblings, more so after Harry started drinking. It wasn't so much that they disliked each other, just that neither had any idea what to say to the other.

"So how did you find out?" John questioned eventually.

"The news," Harry replied automatically. The seconds after her answer were filled with emptiness. Then she said, "I'd have thought you'd be at Scotland Yard. You do know the detective on the case, yes?"

John nodded. "Greg. Yeah." A pause. "He sent me home. Said there's no use standing around looking worried. 'Course, now I'm just sitting around looking worried. He's going to call me if they find anything."

His words were followed by more silence. Empty air surrounded the siblings, making the room seem so much smaller than it was.

"Look," Harry said, "John."

"Yes?" He looked up at her expectantly.

Harry looked down, reconsidering the words she was about to say. When she looked back up, John had looked away again.

"John, you're my brother," she stated. "And I care about you. I know this isn't easy on you, and I just...I feel like I have a responsibility to make everything right for you."

John stared at her in surprise. Harry, like John, found it extremely difficult to express any kind of emotion – the fact that she'd come to see him at all spoke volumes – and her outright admitting anything along the lines of what she'd just said was unheard of.

"I can take care of myself, Harry," he reminded her.

"I know, I know," she said quickly. "I just thought..."

She let the sentence hang unfinished, unsure how she should continue. Neither she nor John spoke for a while.

"I should be going, anyway," she said eventually. "You know... Work."

John looked up. "'Kay. Bye."

"Bye, John." She got to her feet, standing uncertainly in front of the sofa for a few seconds as she wondered whether she should say anything else. So much had gone unsaid, it hardly felt like they'd spoken. After moment or two, though, she made her way out of the door.

Three seconds later, John realised something, and jumped to his feet.

* * *

"Sally," John said, as he ran up to the door of Scotland Yard; Sally was outside, discussing something with a coworker. She turned to face John as he approached.

"I thought Lestrade asked you to go home," she said, by way of greeting.

"He did," John replied. "I need to talk to him."

She glanced at her coworker, a blonde woman with her hair in a bun and a file under her arm, and then walked over to open the door for John. "I guess I'm showing you in, then," she said reluctantly.

Sally took John up to Lestrade's office, where John was surprised to see Mycroft and Lestrade watching a computer screen intently. Sally knocked, and Lestrade called for her to come in.

"Doctor Watson thinks he's got something that might interest you," she said.

Mycroft and Lestrade looked up at John expectantly. "Um," he said, after a few seconds of silence, "I think I might know who has Sherlock."


	5. A Freak Like Sherlock

_Thursday, 14th April 2011_

It was so cold...

Sherlock shivered. The giant metal frame he was attached to had been reattached to the ceiling, and he could feel the blood running down his back.

A light flicked on. Sherlock flinched at the sudden brightness; his eyes had become accustomed to the constant darkness, and the light hurt. He kept his eyes closed for a few seconds, getting used to the dim yellow glow behind his eyelids, and then opened them slowly.

It was Edward. Or, at least, he assumed it was; the man looked a lot like his brother, George. Muddy brown hair and eyes the colour of polished oak, a hue somewhere between gold and brown. His nose was too long for his face, his eyebrows a little too straight, his forehead a little too small. His hair was straighter than his brother's mass of curls, but it was still wavy. Edward was the shorter brother, despite being the eldest – shorter than John, even – but he was muscular and strong. A scar ran down his left cheek, a thin, faint string of red, presumably from the day his brother died.

Edward was holding a small, black camera. A red light in the top left corner indicated the camera was recording. Recording Sherlock. He wondered why.

"Your friends better hope they find you before I need to use this," Edward said, smiling at Sherlock. "They might not like what they see."

The first thing Sherlock thought of was what John's reaction would be. He tried to speak, to say something to his friend, but the tape over his mouth stopped him, and he was left staring at the camera with desperate eyes, trying his best to communicate.

Edward smiled, coming closer. He set the camera down in front of Sherlock, so that the lens was pointing at the detective's red-painted feet, and pulled his black ski mask over his head. Just in case he was caught on camera, Sherlock supposed. He didn't want to be recognised.

Picking the camera back up in his left hand, Edward came closer to Sherlock. "Ah," he said, playing with Sherlock's hair with his other hand; he followed this movement with the camera lens. "This is going to make a nice little present for Scotland Yard, don't you think?"

Sherlock jerked his head away. Edward laughed. "Oh, but they aren't even close to finding you," he muttered, pushing Sherlock's hair behind his ear as he did so. "My little detective boy. Your friends don't have a chance..."

The next thing Sherlock knew, Edward was holding the knife again. It must have been concealed in his pocket – there was nowhere else it could have come from. He used the blade to lift up Sherlock's head, so that he was forced to look into the camera.

"I bet John's going to love this, too," Edward continued. Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to turn away, but the blade cut into the underside of his chin. A short, relatively small burst of pain was followed by a slight throbbing and the feel of blood dribbling down his neck.

The knife travelled downwards, drawing red lines over Sherlock's chest. The blood dripped down his body, in ruby-coloured rivers, painting him scarlet. Red teardrops dripped to the floor below him, and he was under no illusion as to the fact they were splashing on top of layers of other people's dried blood – other people who'd died.

"You know, John," Edward said to the camera, "he's very good. Doesn't seem to mind too much, though. Everyone else was begging me to stop by this point. I guess he knows it won't do any good."

Sherlock struggled backwards, away from the knife, though he couldn't go far enough. The chains, tight around his wrists and ankles, kept him in almost exactly the same position. And he was weak, becoming weaker by the second. He estimated he must have lost at least a litre of blood by this point. Almost enough to grant him unconsciousness... Although, he was losing it slowly enough that his body was becoming acclimatised to the losses. Unconsciousness wouldn't come until much later.

The minutes passed slowly, terrifyingly. Edward kept videoing Sherlock as he created scars on the detective's skin, and inside the detective's mind, and Sherlock was left without an escape. Even his mind palace had failed him; he was in too much pain to escape his body. His wounds grounded him where he was, trapped him, robbed him of the only escape he had.

"He doesn't look like he's doing too well," Edward said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Does he, John?" The knife stroked Sherlock's skin, up and down his chest, up and down, up and down. "You can still save him, you know. Just let George go, and he'll find his way back to you. I promise, John. And I always keep my promises."

Edward's mouth was hidden behind the ski mask he was wearing, but Sherlock was pretty sure he was smiling. The knife jabbed a little deeper into Sherlock's ribcage, and the detective jerked involuntarily and let out a strangled, tape-muffled yell.

"If you don't let George go," Edward continued, "well... This is the last room Sherlock here's going to see before he dies. Isn't that right, Sherlock? Oh, he won't die yet. You've still got time, John. But I won't stop doing -" Another jab to the ribcage. The pain coursed through Sherlock's body like an invading army. "- this."

Sherlock shivered, the cold and pain and bloodloss combining together to overpower him, and he felt his consciousness slip away. He embraced the escape given to him, let his mind fade into darkness, and as his senses slipped away, he heard Edward say one last thing to the camera.

"If you don't give me Georgie back," he said, "then he's not coming home, Dr. Watson."

* * *

Mycroft was staring intently at the CTTV footage. "He has to be watching," he said, scanning the cars in the car park. "How else would he know when Sherlock was outside?"

"You're sure he was targeted?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft had come to him a few hours ago, explaining Anthea's comment about Beck's survival being suspicious, and how the killer knew they'd go to the hospital. It made sense that Sherlock had been targeted specifically, especially as they'd arrested McCabe several hours before.

Mycroft nodded, watching as the white van drew up. "It makes sense," he reasoned, and then looked away. He'd watched his brother being dragged into the van far too many times already; the image of the man wearing a ski mask and holding a syringe and a knife was burned into the back of his eyelids. "Let's go back. There has to be something."

"He probably had someone watch from a car -" Lestrade began.

"We already considered that," Mycroft reminded him, taking the tape back to just after Harris Beck was admitted to the hospital. "There are too many cars that don't move during the time period to single out one, and they all appear to be empty."

Lestrade took a deep breath, searching his brain for anything they could do. "Okay. So let's run all the registration plates, see if anything comes up."

Mycroft agreed, and five minutes later they were looking over the details to a blue Volkswagon Golf. Nothing stood out about the file at all, but there was nothing that could rule the car out, either.

Just then, a knock on the door made Lestrade look up. Sally was outside, with John right behind her. Lestrade sighed; he'd told the doctor to go home only a few hours ago. Being at Scotland Yard had only made him more restless, and, quite frankly, he'd started to get in the way. "Come in," he called.

"Doctor Watson thinks he's got something that might interest you," Sally told him as she showed John into the room.

Mycroft looked up at John expectantly, and Lestrade did the same. John paused, his eyes flicking between the two men in front of him, and then he started speaking. "Um," he said, hesitantly. "I think I might know who has Sherlock."

Sally looked at him in disbelief – he hadn't told her what he was planning to say to Lestrade on the way up to the office. "Yeah," she scoffed. "Look, John, I know you're trying to help, but -"

"Who?" Lestrade asked, cutting her off. Sally rolled her eyes.

John stepped forward, glancing behind him at Sally and then looking back at Lestrade. "So, uh," he began. "The note the killer left. It said 'George is innocent,' right?"

Mycroft and Lestrade looked at him with confused expressions. John continued. "But George wasn't innocent. He was involved, right? I mean, how else would his DNA end up on the bodies? But whoever has Sherlock – he wants to get McCabe off the charges. He's looking after him. He feels some responsibility for him."

Lestrade considered this thoughtfully. "So the killer's someone close to McCabe," he summed up. "It doesn't get us much closer, John."

"Yes," John agreed. "But – McCabe has a brother. Right? So, he would feel that kind of responsibility – especially as he's an older brother."

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond to John's theory, but Sally spoke first. "Okay, John. We get it. You want to help. But you're not... You're not a freak like Sherlock. You can't figure these things out from absolutely no evidence, the way he does."

"Sally," Lestrade warned, seeing the expression on John's face. Sally shut up, and a few seconds later she mumbled something about paperwork and left the room. Lestrade looked up at John. "It's a theory," he said. "And right now, I'll take anything."

He pulled up the file of McCabe's brother, a man named Edward Gray McCabe who'd worked at a small, independent butcher's until it had gone out of business a few months ago. Supposedly, he and George hadn't seen each other since the death of their brother, as George had told his foster parents that he didn't want to see his brother again.

"He owns a silver Honda," Mycroft noted, scanning the paused CCTV footage for the registration plate. A second later, he pointed out a car in the top left corner of the screen. "It's here."

Lestrade zoomed in on the car, but nobody could be seen inside it. "It could be here by coincidence," he suggested.

John shook his head. "No such thing," he said. "Or so Sherlock says."

"Why have the car there in the first place? He stole the van – he knew there'd be surveillance cameras," Lestrade mused. "It seems like an obvious slip up."

Mycroft shook his head. "Two stolen cars in the same car park would be an obvious slip up," he countered. "As long as we had no reason to suspect Edward Gray McCabe, we'd never notice it there."

Lestrade nodded, still frowning. "There's nobody watching, though," he pointed out; the car was completely empty. "Why have it there if he wasn't watching for Sherlock?"

"He was," John said.

Lestrade turned to him, waiting for an explanation. John pointed towards a small blur wedged underneath the headrest on the front passenger seat. It wasn't obvious what it was at first, but given the context and vague shape of the object... "I'd guess that's a camera," John said to Lestrade. "He was probably streaming the footage straight to a laptop in the van." He thought for a moment. "Can you enhance this footage?"

Shaking his head, Lestrade answered doubtfully. "Probably not. Well, yes, but not to a level that would be useful. Technology isn't actually as good as CSI has you believe. But -" He squinted at the screen for a few seconds. "- I'd say that looks enough like a camera to say it's a camera."

The three men stood in silence for thirty seconds or so, staring at the evidence on the screen. Questions ran through all their heads – why was McCabe working with the brother he'd once never wanted to see again? What exactly was Edward's part in all of this? And, most importantly, where was Sherlock?

"So," Lestrade said eventually. "How in hell do we find this bastard?"


	6. The Final Twelve Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, but the pace would get fucked up if I left it out. Very John-centric. Character death coming up next week. You are warned.
> 
> Also, it's actually very early on Friday morning right now (thirteen minutes in, to be precise) so I'd like to wish Amanda Abbington a very happy birthday, and to remind you all to tweet #SherlockiansLoveAmanda today to see if we can get it trending!
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies.

_Friday, 15th April 2011_

It was 4:39am, and Sherlock Holmes had been missing for almost exactly sixty hours. Lestrade and Sally were busy staring at the map of London that was pinned to the wall in front of them, and John and Mycroft were standing behind them; both had refused to leave, or sleep. Sally was the only one who'd slept of the four, and she'd only grabbed a couple of hours just after midnight. John, Lestrade and Mycroft were too focused on finding Sherlock for such trivial things as sleep.

"Molly said he couldn't be further away than the edge of Brent, or Camden," John commented, for the fifth time. "That narrows down the search area a lot."

Nobody reacted to John's words. They were all thinking the same thing; that Sherlock was so close, so nearby, and yet they still couldn't find him. It seemed impossible that he was that near, that he was less than a ten-minute drive away.

Lestrade turned and picked a pen up, drawing a rough circle on the map, centred around Scotland Yard, which enclosed the entire boroughs of Westminster, Kensington and City, parts of Camden and Islington to the north of Westminster, and some parts of Wandsworth, Lambeth and Southwark south of the Thames. Against a map which included every borough from Enfield to Bromley, the circle looked quite small, but still, it was proving impossible to find Sherlock.

"That's about where he could have come from," Lestrade announced, looking at the circle in distaste. Things would be so much easier if that circle was a lot, lot smaller.

"Wait," Sally said, suddenly picking up a piece of paper. "The butcher's Edward McCabe worked for – it was in Islington. Right on the edge of the circle." She took the pen from Lestrade, drawing a cross ever so slightly outside the edge of Lestrade's circle.

Lestrade looked over at Mycroft and John, as if to wait for their reactions before making any decisions. "We have no other leads," Mycroft pointed out, "and less than twelve hours in which to find my brother, if McCabe is sticking to his usual schedule."

"So we go in," Lestrade decided. "And we hope we've got it right, because if we haven't..." He didn't finish the sentence.

John stared at the spot Sally had marked out, and, for a split second, his mind went completely blank. And then all the thoughts came rushing in, tripping over each other for attention, in a whirlwind that John struggled to make sense of.

He could be looking at the place Sherlock was right now, marked on a map. He could be finding Sherlock in only a matter of hours – less than an hour, even. Sherlock would be taken to hospital, taken care of, they'd catch Edward McCabe and throw him in jail with his brother, and everything would be okay...

* * *

John had insisted on coming with Lestrade and the response units to the butcher's. Sally had stayed behind at Scotland Yard, in order to go over the case and see if they'd missed anything; if he wasn't at the butcher's, they'd need to find him as soon as possible.

The butcher's was empty; the owner, Taylor Warren, hadn't sold the building after his business failed but had instead started fixing the place up while he lived on benefits. It was obvious, though, that Warren hadn't been anywhere near the butcher's since around a month after it shut down; not much work had ever gotten done, and what had was already becoming weathered. The painted-over sign, now plain white instead of displaying the name of the butcher's, was not freshly painted but rather slightly faded and greying a little.

Two police officers wearning helmets and bulky, bullet-proof vests slammed a battering ram into the locked door, breaking it down with a loud thud. John imagined Sherlock, somewhere inside, hearing that noise and knowing that it meant help was coming... Or would he not be able to work out what the noise was? Would that make him more scared?

John followed the police unit as they made their way behind the counter and into the back area of the shop. White tiles greeted them, and at first glance the room was clean, but the walls were grubby from months of not being cleaned.

There were stairs near the back of the shop, behind a closed wooden door. The officers went up first, then Lestrade and John behind. Upstairs, a small landing greeted them, alongside the rooms Warren used to let out to students; for whatever reason, he'd decided not to do this for the past year, so the rooms were empty.

The first contained only a small bed, a wardrobe and some shelves, on which a singular book lay –  _Lord of the Rings._ It must have been left behind by whichever student had loaned this room last, and Warren had never bothered to clear it away.

In the next room, the headboard of the bed was broken, and it was obvious nobody had been inside for a very long time. Meaning that Sherlock had to be in the last room, the only room not yet checked by the response unit.

He wasn't. The room was empty.

John stared at the sight in front of him for a long time, refusing to take it in. The room couldn't be empty of everything except a bed, wardrobe and shelves like the others. The room couldn't not be painted red by blood, couldn't not contain some means of holding the victims down, couldn't not have a laughing, manic murderer weilding a knife in it...

It couldn't not contain Sherlock. Sherlock had to be there, because it was the only place he could be, the only place available for McCabe to hide within the rough radius he  _had_  to be inside of. He had to be there, because this had to be over soon, because John couldn't take much more of the constant worry, the constant knowing that somewhere -somewhere in London - Sherlock was in pain.

But he wasn't there. And it didn't make sense.

"John."

He turned around to see Lestrade standing in the doorway, watching him. The officers had left; John could hear them talking downstairs, laughing about something Ollie had done that morning, or that thing Ellen said last week.

"He's not here," John stated. The words were hard for him to get out, but they needed saying, because he needed to accept that they hadn't found Sherlock, and he needed to get back to finding him.

Lestrade's mouth twitched a little, and John couldn't tell if it was determination or despair.

"But we still have time to find him," he reminded John.

* * *

John's watch read 9:36am.

Assuming McCabe was following his usual schedule – and even if he wasn't, the chances of Sherlock's death increased from here until they found him – they had around seven hours of their original seventy-two left to find Sherlock.

Seven.

It didn't seem like a lot, but the time was crawling by and, to John, it felt like forever. They had nothing, absolutely nothing. They had gone over both McCabe brothers' files again and again in the time they'd been back at Scotland Yard; they had looked at the map to find any other place McCabe might go, and come up empty; they had looked through everything about the case and found nothing that could point them in the right direction.

The little hope John had of finding Sherlock was slowly slipping away, as the minutes ticked by on his watch. Quarter to ten. Ten o'clock. Quarter past, half past. And still, they had nothing.

"Okay," Lestrade said, for what felt like the thousandth time, "let's go over the CCTV footage again."

There was nothing new in the first CCTV tape they had, just McCabe's Honda and the stolen white van which hadn't been seen since the day of the abduction. The second tape – the one from outside Scotland Yard, which saw a different van – it was a Ford Transit, Luton-style van, slightly bigger than the first, and a pale blue colour with faintly tinted windows and a company logo on the side – drive up and drop a young, scared-looking boy off. The boy looked over his shoulder as he got out of the van, and the man in the ski mask, presumably McCabe, glared at him.

"Take it back," Mycroft said suddenly, as they watched the boy walk across to the entrance of Scotland Yard. "I thought I saw..."

Lestrade rewound the tape until Mycroft told him to stop, and then paused a second later. The van had not come to a stop yet – it was still several metres from the place it would park. They had a clear view of the boy here, or at least the back of the head. He was looking behind him again, at the plain, wooden divider between the front seats and the behind section of the van.

Mycroft stepped forward, analysing the screen with narrowed eyes. "There can't possibly be something so interesting about this divider," he said eventually, "that this boy would feel the need to turn and look at it twice."

Sally scoffed. "I don't think the boy is under any suspicion here, Mycroft," she told him.

Mycroft turned to Lestrade. "What exactly did the boy say, when you questioned him?"

"Er, when he first came in he told Sally that if the envelope didn't get to me, the ski mask man would kill the bleeding man," Lestrade answered. "I had Sally talk to him after, but he wouldn't tell us anything else. Apparently if he told us too much, the bleeding man was going to die. We couldn't convince him otherwise."

Mycroft thought about this for a moment, and then turned back to the screen. "Something's happening in the back of the van that's got his attention," he mused.

"Could just be something falling over," Lestrade reasoned. "They did just come around that bend."

"Or," Mycroft muttered, a thoughtful expression on his face, but he didn't finish the sentence.

Realising suddenly what the others were talking about, John spoke up. "Wait, you think –  _Sherlock'_ s in there?" he exclaimed.

Mycroft shrugged. "It would make it easier to move his victims if he thought he was close to being caught," he noted. "Though people do notice vans more than cars. They stick out... But if he kept changing which one he was using, one van for each victim. Borrow this one from a friend, steal that one for a few days. It would be extremely easy to stay under the radar."

"Limited space, though," Sally observed.

Lestrade gestured to the van on the screen. "Well, this van belongs to a Jennifer Walliams. It was reported stolen the morning before we received the envelope."

John was hardly listening to what Lestrade was saying; those details were unimportant, and there were much more urgent things to worry about. "How do we find it?" he asked, glancing at his watch; they had six hours until it was precisely three days since Sherlock was kidnapped. Not that the McCabes were all too punctual, but they usually killed their victims within a few hours of the three-day mark.

Trying not to think about the fact that, even if Edward McCabe was staying on schedule, Sherlock could already be dead, John looked towards Lestrade expectantly, waiting for an answer to his question.

Lestrade simply turned to Sally. "Get everyone out looking," he said. "Blue van, Ford Transit, logo..." He rattled off the details about the van, Sally nodding along and writing them down. Once he was finished, Sally tore the page out of her notepad and hurried off.

Mycroft was on his phone, presumably calling somebody in the Government to pull some strings and get more people out looking. John and Lestrade looked at each other.

"John?" Lestrade asked. "Do you think there's any chance that, you know, they won't kill him once the three days are up?"

John shook his head. He couldn't allow himself to hope, not now, when it was so urgent they find Sherlock and any doubt about that urgency couldn't get in the way of the finding Sherlock side of things, because if Sherlock had been given the same three day period as the other victims, then his time was almost up, and it was either find him or leave him to die. And, since there was no way to know whether Sherlock was scheduled to die or not, they had to assume that he was. Assume the worst, and act on that.

"It's just that," Lestrade continued, "he's the only bargaining chip McCabe's got. If Sherlock dies, then he's got nothing on us. He won't be able to force us to release his brother."

John looked down. "Yeah," he agreed. "But..."

He let the word hang in the air between them. There were so many 'but's. But what if McCabe was just planning on picking up another bargaining chip once his first was dead? But what if McCabe's victims meant more to him than his brother? But what if McCabe was planning on keeping Sherlock alive, but misjudged the blood loss?

But what if Sherlock was already dead?


	7. We Might Not Make It Home Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... You all know what's coming. Warning for a major character death in this chapter. Super sorry. Please don't kill me. Or, you know, do anything undesirable to me. Please.
> 
> Title is taken from the song "Get Up" by Barcelona. Quote is from HBO's "Six Feet Under".
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies.

_Friday, 15th April – Sunday, 17th April 2011_

* * *

_Why do people have to die?_

_To make life important._

\- TRACY MONTROSE BLAIR and NATE FISHER, Six Feet Under, " _Knock, Knock"_

* * *

Dr. John Abbott was a young-ish, vaguely good looking, rather inexperienced paramedic who worked at the Royal London Hospital in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. He had hair that could be called blond and could be called ginger, but in truth was somewhere inbetween, and his face was decorated by a scattering of faint freckles.

Abbott's day had gone pretty well. He'd not had to deal with any injuries that were too serious for a week, and nothing that was immediately life threatening for even longer. His friend Jake had gotten engaged to his girlfriend, Sara, three days ago, and his cousin had emailed him from D.C. - the first contact they'd had for months. Things were looking pretty good.

Home awaited him as he turned the corner into his street. He stopped the car, got out, walked to the door, made a mental note to remind the people who lived downstairs to lock the door, went inside, climbed the stairs, and realised the door to his flat was also unlocked.

"You must be John Abbott," a voice said.

Abbott froze, looking up to see a man with golden-brown eyes and dark hair standing just inside his flat. He felt his eyes widen in shock. This man, this stranger, should not have been able to get inside. And he should not have known Abbott's name.

The stranger laughed. "Hello!"

"Who are you?" Abbott inquired. He tried to make his voice light, as if he wasn't surprised at all to find a stranger standing in his flat.

The stranger walked forwards, looking Abbott up and down. "Someone who requires your services."

Looking down at himself, Abbott realised he was still wearing his paramedic's uniform – of course, since he hadn't been able to get into his flat and change. He looked back at the man, who seemed to be waiting for a response. "What for?"

"Someone's going to die if you don't come with me."

Abbott almost said  _where_ then, almost followed this man straight to wherever he wanted to go; his moral compass had taken over. But then he remembered that the man was inside his flat, and he had no idea how, and that this was a stranger he'd never met before. "Well, you should call the emergency services," he instructed. "They'll probably get there before we do, anyways."

The man exhaled. "Can't do that. Sorry."

Abbott was about to ask why when the man walked toward him, and the next thing he knew a knife blade was pressed into his neck. "Where's your little first aid kit, Doctor John?" the stranger questioned.

Abbott gasped in fear, feeling the sharpness of the blade against his skin and then the subsequent quickening of his heartbeat. "Please don't hurt me!"

The stranger laughed. "Oh, I'm not going to," he said. "I just need you and your kit, Doctor John. Or else Sherlock Holmes is going to die from what I'll do to him."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was headed out to the shops when the small, red car pulled up. It was early-ish Monday afternoon, and she'd run out of eggs.

"Hey!" the man driving the car called out to her. "Miss? I think I'm lost. Mind helping me out here?"

Frowning, Mrs. Hudson came over. It was not often men asked for directions; they generally preferred to drive around lost for hours on end before doing so. Maybe this man had already, she mused, and had eventually become desperate enough to ask.

She leant into the rolled-down window to see the brown-haired man, and was about to ask where he was headed when he handed her a small, clear plastic box with what looked like the end of someone's finger inside it.

"Ma'am," the man said, "I am very sorry to tell you this, but this is the only part of Sherlock Holmes's body you will be getting until my brother is released."

And, with that, he drove off, leaving Mrs. Hudson holding a finger in a box in the middle of Baker Street.

* * *

"And then he just drove away?" Lestrade asked, hoping that the distress he was feeling didn't show through in his eyes. He remembered at the box he'd been shown, and the finger that was supposedly Sherlock's inside it, and hoped to God that McCabe was just messing with them.

Because if Sherlock was dead... He didn't want to think about that.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. She, was staring at the table, and from her expression, Lestrade knew she hadn't processed what had happened properly yet, that she wanted more than anything else in this moment for this to not be happening.

"Yes," she whispered. "He just... Drove off."

Lestrade looked down. "Okay," he said, and he could hear the strain in his voice. "Can you describe the man who gave this to you?"

Mrs. Hudson reeled off a short, but detailed description of the man in the red car, and Lestrade took notes. He kept his mind focused on the description and what he was writing down, trying his best to ignore the part of his brain that wanted to constantly think  _Sherlock's dead, Sherlock's dead._

"And the car?" he prompted when she was finished. A description of the car followed, and, at the end, he simply stood up, thanked Mrs. Hudson for her time, and left her with Sally.

Outside the room, John was waiting. He stepped away from the wall as Lestrade appeared, and looked as if he were about to say something, but then stopped. His facial expression was unreadable, aside from his eyes; through them, Lestrade could see the desperate need to get the truth.

He didn't need to tell John that they had no proof whatsoever that Sherlock was dead. John knew that. John knew that there was a chance McCabe was just messing with their heads, that Sherlock could still be alive and things could still go back to normal at some distant, unseeable point in the future.

John also knew that there was every chance that the opposite was true.

Just days ago – just yesterday, even – the hope John had for Sherlock coming home at some point, any point, had almost been minimal. He would have said that he knew what it was like to be hopeless. He would have said he knew what it was like to know something had happened and to want it not to have happened with every fibre of his being. He would have said he knew those things yesterday, but he didn't, not yesterday.

He knew hopelessness today, though. He knew it better than he'd known anything, ever, before.

"Molly will have something for us tomorrow," Lestrade reminded him. John didn't reply; he didn't want to think about what Molly might tell him once she'd finished with the finger. He didn't want to think about how Sherlock might have died, he didn't want to think about his best friend's last hours, he didn't want to wonder whether Sherlock had given up hope of being rescued or not...

"You should get some rest," Lestrade suggested, although they both knew that wasn't going to happen. Thoughts were tumbling through John's brain too quickly and confusingly to allow anything that might be called  _rest_. "I'll call you as soon as I hear from Molly."

"Right," John said, nodding. "Sure." He turned away from Lestrade, at first meaning to go back to Baker Street, but he ended up sitting alone in a chair outside some unknown person's office somewhere in Scotland Yard, because going back to Baker Street would mean going back to a place filled with memories of Sherlock, and that was the last thing John needed at this moment.

* * *

Lestrade came into the room at Bart's where Molly was waiting for him, his expression showing how hard he was trying not to think about what was happening. He didn't need to ask for the answers to his questions; they were written, clearer than crystal, on her face, and he knew as soon as he saw her.

She watched the door behind him close with a hard thud. "John's not coming?"

"He's at Scotland Yard," Lestrade answered. "He, uh, doesn't know I came. I'll tell him... This." He paused, looking at Molly for a long second. "When I get back." She nodded, not meeting his eye.

"DNA was a match to Sherlock," she informed him, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady. "Left index. The bone was shattered, not splintered, meaning it was removed..." She let her words fade into the empty air, hoping that she wouldn't have to say the rest, hoping that Lestrade would understand from what she had already said. But he was looking at her, both expectant and apprehensive.

"Yes?" he prompted, dreading the answer.

"Post," Molly began, and then swallowed. Her voice broke – that terrible sound of someone trying their very best not to cry as they talk - as she said the second word. "Mortem."

* * *

John was sitting in Lestrade's office; Lestrade had let him stay in there after he'd discovered John sitting outside his colleague's office last night. The chair was not too comfortable to sleep in, but he had hardly slept anyway. His mind had been too busy going over scenario after scenario, each worse than the last, each more twisted and dark and hopeless, and with each the hole in his heart grew deeper. He wished Sherlock would just walk through Lestrade's door right now and declare everything to be just an experiment, a study on John, because that, at least, would be better than  _this_.

The door opened, and John looked up, and for half a second he actually believed it would be Sherlock, alive and well, and he could stop worrying and doubting and wondering whether his best friend was still alive.

But it wasn't Sherlock. It was Lestrade.

John stood up. "Molly got something for us?" he asked.

"I, uh," Lestrade said hesitantly. "I already talked to Molly."

John was about to tell Lestrade off for going without him, about to say that he should have taken John with him, because John had a right to know – he had a right to know what had happened to Sherlock.

Before his mouth could form the words, though, he noticed the look in Lestrade's eyes. The look of a man whose last spark of hope has been put out. The look of a man who has just been given the worst news he's had in a long, long time. The look of a man who has failed.

"Oh." John's mouth barely formed the word. His legs felt weak, and he found himself crashing back into the seat behind him. He'd known it was possible, probable even, that this would be happening, that this would be the news he got. But that was nowhere near knowing it was true.

Lestrade stepped towards the doctor, unsure of what words to use, or if he should even speak at all. He watched as the best friend of a dead man stared blankly at the table, his mind unable to absorb the news, his body unable to react.

"Say it," John whispered, after a long silence had passed between them. "I need to hear it. I – I think I need to hear it."

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade said, "I'm sorry, John. But he's dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off, this is the first time I've dealt with anything like character death, so please, please comment and tell me what you think? I'm not entirely happy with the ending to this chapter especially, but I think I did okay? But I'd love some constructive criticism from you guys..
> 
> Secondly, I'm sorry. I really am. But it's kind of crucial for specific characters acting in specific ways over the next few chapters, and I needed these specific characters to act in this specific way in order for the story to progress. So I was thinking, well, what would make this specific character react in this specific way? And this is what I came up with, and this is what needed to happen for the story to progress the way it needed to. So yeah. Sorry.


	8. Sixteen Years Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you theorising that Sherlock is still alive – I'm sorry. But I DID say major character death…
> 
> As I have broken my laptop, it may be some time before the next chapter is published. I apologise :-( I thought it would be this time, but fortunately I had the majority of this chapter saved to a USB stick so I am posting from a very old and slow computer. I will try to update next Thursday if I can, but I may not be able to.
> 
> Parts of the ending to this chapter are taken from "The Reichenbach Fall" episode, though slightly reworded and reordered to fit into this fic.
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies.

_Thursday, 21_ _st_ _April – Friday, 22_ _nd_ _April 2011_

"There has to be  _something_!" Lestrade exclaimed.

It had been just under a week since Sherlock's death – or presumed death, technically, since they didn't actually have the body – and Scotland Yard had come up with exactly zero leads in the case. Edward McCabe was off the grid, and, it seemed, he'd left no trace behind.

The only new thing they had was the disappearance of a doctor named John Abbott, which had been tied to the case after the small, red car McCabe had driven to Baker Street was identified as his. Abbott's whereabouts, though, were a mystery that they weren't getting any closer to solving; in fact, aside from the fact McCabe had used his car, and the fact he didn't seem to be anywhere, there was absolutely nothing too suspicious about Abbott's disappearance.

"So why Abbott?" was a question Lestrade had asked a lot during the past week. The answer was always the same.

"Why Alexander? Why Bergmann? Why Kyle?" McCabe's first three victims had, after all, been chosen at random, as had Harris Beck, the fourth. Beck was now out of hospital, and recovering from his traumatic ordeal, but he had told the police that, for his own mental wellbeing, he wanted no part in the case. He just wanted a quiet, trauma-free recovery. And, as much as Lestrade wanted to find the man who'd killed Sherlock, he couldn't force Beck to co-operate.

Anderson exhaled. He, too, wanted justice for Sherlock Holmes, although he didn't feel quite as strongly about it as Lestrade did. "We've got nothing," he stated. "Absolutely nothing."

And it was true. They'd been pouring over this evidence for days, and it was useless. The Chief Superintendant had made it clear to Lestrade that, should another case come up, he was to concentrate on that one, because they were getting nowhere and everything else just couldn't take a back seat until they found answers.

Just then, Sally entered. "The blue van turned up," she announced. "It's in Soho."

Lestrade was on his feet immediately, a sense of urgency settling into his veins, and he immediately left the room, Sally and Anderson following behind him. Sally navigated him to the right street, a small alley lined with restaurants, just around the corner from around three different theatres. The van was parked neatly on the curb, blocking almost the entirety of the tiny alley.

An officer handed them each a blue, disposable crime scene suit to wear, and, after pulling them on, they were allowed to proceed towards the van. Anderson opened the door to the cab. "Cleaned out," he stated. "Looks like he didn't want us finding anything."

"Debateable," an officer called from the rear end of the van. Lestrade and Sally headed towards him, while Anderson inspected the cab a little more. The officer – Lestrade vaguely recognised him. Constable Pecku, maybe? - gestured towards the inside of the storage compartment of the van as soon as Lestrade and Sally were close enough to see.

The inside of the van was large – just under two metres wide, just over two metres tall, and almost three metres lengthways. The inside walls were white, interrupted by a grid of silver. A pool of dried blood, like spilled burgundy paint, covered a reasonably large area of the van's floor.

Lestrade stared at the blood, unsure how he should react. Part of his brain was trying to work out how much there was, and another part was wondering whether it was Sherlock's or the missing doctor's. Probably Sherlock's, he reasoned. The more McCabe messed with them, the more pressure he put them under, the more likely they'd cave in and release his brother.

If that was still the endgame. After all, they hadn't heard anything from him in nearly a week. Lestrade had half-hoped that that had been the end of things. That he could stop worrying, stop searching for someone who seemed to constantly be not one step, but a thousand steps ahead of him. That all of this would be over soon.

He'd known he couldn't give up, though. He couldn't justify that, to himself or anyone else. Sherlock deserved more. Sherlock deserved to have the man who did that to him convicted, punished, jailed for life. Hell, McCabe deserved the death penalty...

For one half-second, Lestrade wished capital punishment was legal in the UK.

* * *

"John."

John looked up from the chair he was sitting in, to where Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway. They looked at each other for a brief moment, sadness in their eyes. John looked away first, his memories running over everything that had happened over the past two years. Conversations between him and Sherlock, cases they'd solved, cases they'd not, things they'd said to each other and things that had gone unspoken. The last thing he'd heard Sherlock say.  _I'm going outside. I need some fresh air._

"Mrs. Hudson," John responded. He glanced over at the window. "It's a nice day."

Mrs. Hudson was watching John carefully, and, after a minute or so, she walked towards him. "You miss him," she stated. It wasn't a question.

John looked up, his eyes conveying the fact that this was the last thing he wanted to talk about. "I don't want to –" he began, but then stopped, pressing his lips together. When he spoke again, his tone was slightly angry. "Well,  _yes_. Yes, of course I miss him! Don't you?"

"Of course!" Mrs. Hudson said quickly. "It's just – It's been days. You've hardly spoken."

John glanced up at her, and then away. "I –" He stopped there. It occurred to him that he hadn't actually thought about what he might say before starting. And then he realised he had nothing to say.

Mrs. Hudson nodded understandingly.

"John?" Her question was hesitant.

He looked up again. "Yes?"

"I…" she began, and then paused, as if wondering whether to broach the subject or not. "I think it might be a good idea to go see that therapist of yours again."

* * *

George Reilly McCabe looked a lot like his brother. They had the same eye colour – something close to cognac, but not quite – and their hair was the same shade of brown, although George's was much, much curlier.

"Whad'ya want this time?" he questioned as Lestrade appeared in front of George's holding cell. "You want my damned number or something? 'Cos I don't swing that way, Detective. You should try someone else."

Lestrade didn't respond.

He'd been coming to see the younger McCabe brother often for almost as long as they'd had him in custody. At first, it was with the intention of finding Sherlock. Now, though, with Sherlock all but confirmed dead, Lestrade was more focused on finding the elder brother and making him pay.

"Though," George continued. "I wouldn't mind if you got me a bloody drink. I 'aven't had any alcohol since y'all put me down 'ere. I'm dying, man."

Lestrade ignored this comment and pulled out a folding chair. He sat down facing George. "You know what I want to know," he said. "Tell me."

George rolled his eyes. "And you know I want a darned drink," he retorted. "Get me one."

"I'll think about it," Lestrade promised, although he knew it was impossible. " _If_ you tell me how to find your brother. Give me a meeting place, traceable phone number, anything."

George laughed. "Ah, Detective," he said. "You've been coming in here for as long as I've been sitting 'ere, and your questions are so predict'ble. First who I'm working with, now where is he… Always the same questions. You really think I'm gonna give ya a damned answer this time?"

Lestrade sighed. "If you help us –"

"Yeah, yeah," George interrupted. "You'll tell your bosses I co-operated or whatever, and I get a shorter prison sentence. Ya know what, Detective? I don't care how long my prison sentence is, okay? So you can stop trying and save yaself the trouble."

Closing his eyes, Lestrade thought for a minute. "Right," he said eventually. "No shortening the prison sentence. What kind of deal do you want?"

George laughed again, louder this time, and leaned forwards. "I don't want a deal," he informed Lestrade. "I want my brother to be free."

Lestrade thought about leaving it there, but he couldn't – he had to get something out of the man, or else they'd never get any kind of justice for Sherlock.

"Okay," he said. "Why?"

"Why…?" George questioned.

"Why are you willing to sacrifice yourself for your brother?" Lestrade clarified.

George grinned. "Oh, hello! A change of question! An' an original one, too!" He mimicked excitement sarcastically.

"Just answer the question," Lestrade ordered.

George looked thoughtful for a moment, but eventually– and almost reluctantly – he said, "You never thought that – maybe - I might wanna protect Edward 'cause he's the only family I have left?"

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. "You haven't seen him in over sixteen years," he reminded George. "You asked never to see him again."

"And?"

"It's a little…dramatic change of heart. Don't you think?"

"Hm," George said, standing up and walking closer to Lestrade. He wrapped his fingers around the bars between them. "I guess that those sixteen years gave me time to think 'bout why I asked that," he told Lestrade, "and then I decided that it was the wrong thing to 'ave asked."

Lestrade considered this for a moment. "You see it as a betrayal?"

"I suppose you could say that."

The Detective Inspector couldn't help but smile a little. He finally had something he could pick at – if he could convince George that he was wrong in believing his request to never see Edward again wasn't a betrayal of his brother, George's entire reason for protecting his elder brother would fall apart – and then maybe he could find a way to get Edward's whereabouts, or something they could use to find him, out of the younger brother.

First off, then, he needed to figure out why George felt he had betrayed his brother. No better way, he figured, than to ask it straight out. "Why do you see it that way?"

"Because." This was George's only reply.

"I'm going to need more than that," Lestrade told him.

George rolled his eyes. "Why are you even asking this, Detective?" he questioned. "What ya hoping to gain from this? You ain't gonna find my brother like this."

Lestrade didn't take long to consider his answer. "I'm curious."

"I'd have thought you'd be more curious about other things," George shot back. "Such as where exactly my brother is. And when he plans to kill again."

Lestrade flinched at the mention of Edward killing people. He realised George was steering the conversation now – he needed to bring it back on subject. Back to what happened in September nineteen-ninety-four. "George," he said, "what you went through was a traumatic experience. It makes sense you'd get as far away from everything to do with it as you could."

An unreadable look flashed across George's face, and he stepped away from the bars. "You don't know what happened that day," he said. "You don't know anything."

"It's on the file," Lestrade reminded him gently. "You told the police –"

"That's right," George interrupted. " _I_  told the police. And I lied." Lestrade expected him to stop there – after all, George was incredibly guarded when they were talking about anything relating to his brother. Calculated, vague answers, changing the subject - he tried every trick in the book.

But George was angry now. Something Lestrade had said, or maybe something unrelated that had flashed across George's mind at the wrong moment, had made the youngest McCabe brother extremely angry. And, apparently, when George was angry, he talked.

"Nobody knows what happened sixteen years ago excep' me and Edward. So believe me when I tell ya that asking to never see my brother again was a betrayal, an' the biggest betrayal I could'a thrown at him. 'Cause I abandoned him when he needed me the most." George looked Lestrade directly in the eye. "He needs me again now. An' I ain't gonna abandon him again."

* * *

It had been more than a week since John had last seen Sherlock. Ten days, to be exact. And it had been five since he'd been told that Sherlock was dead. Gone. That he was never coming back.

"It's been -" Ella checked her notes - "sixteen months since our last appointment."

John nodded. The last time he'd seen Ella, he hadn't even met Sherlock. The thought bounced around his brain, and he closed his eyes. It had been less than a year and a half that he'd known Sherlock, and yet, he could hardly remember what it was like to not know him, to not be used to the skull and the murders and every other eccentricity that living with Sherlock brought.

"Why now?" Ella questioned.

Their eyes didn't meet, although Ella's were studying John's face. He, on the other hand, was looking at the table between them. "You read the papers? Watch the news?"

"Sometimes," she answered.

"Then you know why I'm here," John told her. It was true; the story of Sherlock's disappearance and subsequent death had been a hit with the media. Never the front page, though – always the second, third, fourth. They'd never been famous enough to make the front page.

The newspapers were covered in articles, though.  _Why Scotland Yard Couldn't Save Amateur Detective._ Or  _The Crime Solving Duo – And The Killer Who Separated Them._  John had seen the articles, and he hadn't read any of them. But they were everywhere.

"You need to say it, John," Ella told him. "Say it to me."

"Sherl -" John began, and then swallowed. His mouth felt dry, and the words wouldn't come. He couldn't say it. It was like there was some kind of block in his throat.

"John," Ella said, "just say it."

Taking a deep breath, John stared at the table in front of him and said, "My best friend, Sherlock Holmes -" He swallowed again, closing his eyes and wishing what he was saying wasn't true. "- is dead."


	9. A Good Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote, as stated below it, is from "The Reichenbach Fall" episode.
> 
> Totally not sure whether I'm happy with this or not. Too tired to care. Gonna go sleep.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of war, blood, and a kinda fucked up nightmare death.
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies.

_Saturday, 23rd April – Wednesday, 27th April 2011_

* * *

_You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known._

_-_ JOHN WATSON, BBC Sherlock, " _The Reichenbach Fall"_

* * *

Gunfire. Shouting. Heat and noise and sweat and fear and...

John sat up. His shirt was soaked to his skin, his expression alert and somewhat afraid. After a second, he exhaled and glanced at his clock; it was 5:04am, and he'd had another nightmare.

He wasn't sure when they'd began again, really, just that before Sherlock... Just that they hadn't been happening before the past week or so, and they'd gotten worse since they'd started up again.

He sank his head into his pillow and closed his eyes; he was tired, and he didn't have to get up in the morning, so he went back to sleep.

* * *

_Sherlock was standing in front of him, wearing army gear and carrying a gun. They were at the base, surrounded by pale blue sky and pale orangeish ground, and he could feel his heartbeat in his chest._

" _Come on, John," Sherlock said. "We have to go. We have a case to solve."_

_He ran out of the base, and John was following him. His feet pad-padded against the ground, and he could feel the sunlight and heat on his face. The sensation wasn't quite there, almost a memory, but it was there enough that he could feel it._

" _Hurry up, John!" Sherlock called._

_John found himself going faster. Sherlock was out of sight now, around the corner ahead of him, but when John rounded the corner he couldn't see his friend._

_He heard the gunfire before he saw the people shooting – two men dressed in all black, their faces covered in cloth, standing either side of him with guns in their hands. John found a gun in his own hands, too, and it was firing against his will at the figure backed against the wall only ten metres or so away from him._

_Sherlock._

_His friend fell to the floor, blood streaming from his wounds, painting the ground an unrealistically bright red. John tried to run towards him, but he couldn't – his feet were trapped where he stood, and words were pouring from his mouth._

" _Show off!" he yelled at the dying man. "Freak! Insensitive bastard!"_

_Although he couldn't feel Sherlock's pulse from where he stood, he knew exactly when the detective died._

* * *

The sweat had created a small pool in John's bed when he woke this time. He didn't sit up, just stared at the ceiling unblinking, feeling the wetness in his eyes. His alarm clock now read half seven.

He had six hours until the service.

Mycroft had arranged to have a kind of memorial service for Sherlock at St. Bart's – not the church, since they had no body to bury, and Sherlock was not a religious man. It wasn't that the idea of a God was illogical to him, it was just that he'd never cared much about anything outside the murders and cases that his life had revolved around. He'd never bothered to wonder how the universe had gotten here, or why life existed, or any of those existential questions some people worried about so much.

At first, though, John had wondered why Mycroft was arranging the memorial at all. "Why?" he'd asked, when Mycroft had turned up at 221B to tell him about it. "Why do we need a service? Shouldn't we, you know, be focusing on catching the man who did this to -"

Mycroft hadn't responded to John's questions. He'd simply said, "I'll see you there, John," and left. It was later that night that John realised that, as much as he tried, Mycroft Holmes was not completely detached from emotion. He'd arranged the service out of a need to mourn his brother.

* * *

It was quiet outside St. Bart's. The air was still, the birds quiet, the people who had gathered solemn. It was rather warm, and the humid dampness of last night's rain lingered in the air – normal weather for London in late April.

John stood between Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's name carved into the plaque on the memorial bench. He was sure Sherlock would have laughed at this expression of sentiment, but for those who'd come to the memorial – Sherlock's family, friends and various acquaintances – it was the only way they had of saying goodbye, since without a body, burial was not an option.

Sherlock's parents stood by the bench, their hair grey and their faces streaked with tears. As her husband spoke, Mrs. Holmes's hand grasped the thin armrest of the bench beside her. It gave her some small comfort, though she couldn't have explained why.

They'd been talking for almost ten minutes, taking it in turns to relay stories about Sherlock's youth. John had hardly been listening. His own memories of Sherlock were painful enough; other people's memories were more so. He didn't want to find out the things he'd never had a chance to hear from Sherlock himself. He didn't want to know about first steps, or Redbeard, or weekends spent in soggy seaside towns long ago. These memories, from so long before John had met Sherlock, seemed distant. Alien, even. They weren't Sherlock as John had known him. They weren't Sherlock as John would remember him. They were somebody else's Sherlock, and John found that, at this time, he simply didn't want to know.

Eventually, Sherlock's parents walked back into the crowd – if the small number of people in attendance could be called that. His father's hand hesitantly brushed the tiny plaque as he passed the bench. Lestrade, coming the other way, watched this seemingly insignificant goodbye before he turned to face the gathered mourners.

He didn't bother with any kind of introductions, though he wasn't certain that everyone their knew who he was. It was likely they did, though – the gathering was small, consisted of very few people: John, of course, was there; Mycroft and their parents; Lestrade himself; Mrs. Hudson and Molly; and one or two others. From the look of them, Lestrade guessed they were members of Sherlock's homeless network.

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade began his speech. "I met Sherlock Holmes several years ago," he said, "although I don't think the 'how' is necessary information here. Some of you know the story, but even if you don't -" His eyes lingered on John for a second. "- you do know that I considered Sherlock a friend... Of sorts, at least." His lips twitched into something that could be called a smile, albeit one dominated by sadness and grief. "Sherlock was never the, uh, the type to have friends. Though, I think, for a while I was the closest he had."

John looked away at this point, down at the pavement underneath his feet. He remembered Sherlock's obstinate confidence that he had no friends, that nobody could ever  _be_ his friend... And then, back when they'd been hunting the non-existant hounds of Baskerville, the words he'd spoken to John.  _I don't have friends. I just have one._

Shaking his head to rid himself of the agonising memory, John looked up. He'd already missed a minute or so of Lestrade's speech, and he forced himself to focus on it again.

"- a huge help to me through the years, and I know that his loss will be felt by the whole of Scotland Yard as well as by myself."

Lestrade gripped his phone, half expecting it to buzz in announcement that he'd received a text message. He knew the message well, a consequence of all the times Sherlock had deemed it necessary to send it in the time he'd been working as what he called a 'consulting detective'. One simple word, a statement –  _Wrong!_ \- sent in this instance because Sherlock would never see how valuable he was despite his status as a freak. Lestrade knew Sherlock would have interpreted those words as a lie... But no message came, and, after a second or two of doubtful hesitation, Lestrade continued.

"But I'm not here to talk about Scotland Yard. I'm here to talk about Sherlock.

"He was a genius. Everyone who knew him for more than five seconds knew that. He was also a great man – great at solving cases, great at finding links we couldn't, great at... At seeing the world in a way nobody else could. Yes. He was undoubtedly a great man, and... I used to think that, maybe, if we were lucky, he might someday manage to be a good one. But -" Lestrade paused, glancing down at the bench and then up at John before he continued "- looking back now, I think that, just maybe... Maybe he always was."

* * *

Anderson shook his head. "Telling him about Sherlock didn't work," he told Lestrade. "He's not going to talk."

Mycroft's eyes flickered between Anderson, Sally and Lestrade. "I could talk to him," he suggested. "Greg?"

Lestrade responded immediately, without even considering Mycroft's offer. "No," he ruled, shaking his head. "You're too close -"

"And you're not?" Mycroft challenged him.

Sally stepped forwards, her eyes on Mycroft. "It could be a good idea," she said. "McCabe's not going to talk to us, and we're not going to get anywhere like this. Mycroft might get him to open up."

Lestrade glared at her, but this time he thought about the suggestion before shaking his head again. "No. He's far too close – and who knows what McCabe might have up his sleeve to... Manipulate him?"

"We might have to take that chance," Sally told him.

Lestrade just shook his head again. "I don't like it."

"Right," Sally said. "And you have a better idea?" She folded her arms, waiting for Lestrade's response with an expectant, but still rather smug, expression. "Come on, Lestrade. What's your plan? Keep going at McCabe with the same routine, the same people, the same questions? It's not tried and tested, Greg. It's tried and failed."

It took Lestrade a minute to work out a response. Sally was right – he knew that. He'd seen this tactic work before, in so many different cases. Show them the emotion. Show them the tears. Make them sympathise.

Still, he didn't like it. It was too close to home, too much of a risk, and this was a case Lestrade definitely didn't want to turn cold. He owed it to Sherlock to solve this...

"Alright," he said, eventually. "But you don't go in alone."

* * *

"George," Mycroft said coldly, refusing the chair Lestrade pulled up for him. "Hello."

George raised his eyebrows, looking amusedly at the man in front of him. He turned to Lestrade. "I already told y'all I don't want a lawyer," he reminded the detective.

Mycroft's gaze was a razor. "I'm not a lawyer," he said. "I'm Sherlock Holmes's brother."

The surprise was obvious in George's expression, but he laughed. "Brother? Well, I never. You're tryin' something new, Detective." He stepped closer to Mycroft. "Sorry to disappoint. But I don't  _actually_  know where either of our brothers are, Mister Holmes."

Mycroft stepped closer too, despite Lestrade's instruction to keep at least a metre away from the bars. The detective spoke up to remind Mycroft of this, but he was completely ignored.

"Then I suggest you give me something," Mycroft growled.

"And wha'do I get in return?" George questioned.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "That depends," he said, "on what exactly you're going to tell me."

George considered this for a minute or two, and a deathly silence sat on the room. Eventually, he spoke. "Detective," he said, "mind giving Holmes here an' me a moment alone?"

"Not happening." Lestrade's tone was harsh, and it was obvious he wasn't budging.

"Ah," George said softly, but even he realised that nothing was going to happen unless he let Lestrade stay. "Okay. Well then, Mister Holmes. Mind tellin' me yer first name? It's only fair. You do know mine, after all."

"Mycroft."

George's eyes narrowed. "Wow," he said. "Well, I can't say much for yer lying skills.  _Mycroft_. Is that even a real name?"

"My name," Mycroft said, "is Mycroft."

"And I thought  _my_  parents hated me," George said, amused. "Dropping me and my brothers with our uncle for a holiday and never coming back... But to be called  _Mycroft_..."

"Where is Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted.

George studied Mycroft's expression for a minute. "Now, that's an interesting one. The police tell me he's dead. Now I – I don't believe that. You believe that, Mister Holmes?"

"We have scientific evidence," Lestrade injected from across the room.

"Right," George said. "Science. Never was good at that. Never had to take exams in it, either. The perks of being homeschooled. But my brother...ah, Robert could recite twenty different physics laws at yer if he wanted. Before... Well, you know what my uncle did to him."

"Stop changing the subject," Mycroft said, and the authority in his voice was unmistakeable, "and tell me how I can find my brother."

George stared at Mycroft for a second. "See," he said eventually. "I was right. Yer don't think Sherlock's dead, either. Do ya?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, and then closed it. Ever since Lestrade had told him Sherlock was dead, he'd been running scenarios through his head in which Sherlock might reappear, alive, and not too badly injured. He'd thought up reason after reason why Edward McCabe might shy away from killing him, or why he might convince Scotland Yard that Sherlock was dead.

But none of it could entirely convince Mycroft that his brother was alive. He knew that caring was not an advantage, that theorising against every facet of evidence would weaken his intellect, and that false hope never helped. It was because he knew these things that he told himself, time and time again, that there was no way Sherlock was alive. It was impossible. Illogical, even, and to consider it was an insult to Molly's capability at forensic science.

Sherlock was dead. Mycroft needed to remember that, or else he would not stay objective.

George's fingers interlaced around one of the bars. "D'you know what I think?" he asked. "I think Sherlock's my brother's only bargaining chip. An' Edward's too smart to get rid of his only bargaining chip."

Mycroft looked down. It wasn't as if that thought hadn't already crossed his mind, but he needed not to hope.  _Don't hope, don't hope, don't hope._

"Didya never realise," George continued, "that Edward has no reason to kill your brother, and ev'ry reason to keep 'im alive?"

_Don't hope, don't hope, don't hope._

"Your brother ain't dead, Mycroft Holmes, and I know it, because my brother ain't that dumb."


	10. One More Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY I DIDN'T PUBLISH ON THURSDAY. Like, really sorry. I was planning to, but I was only halfway finished by then and I couldn't do it over the weekend because I had an English Lit mock yesterday and a German speaking exam today and basically I was so busy revising and preparing and whatever that I didn't have time to write.
> 
> A couple people have asked whether we'll see the video of Sherlock from chapter five. The answer is yes, John will see that. In the next chapter, to be exact.
> 
> As far as this week's chapter goes... I hope y'all are good at science.
> 
> Due to the wide time span of this chapter (12th - 27th April) I have included the date at the beginning of each 'section' as well as the thingy under the chapter name, so as y'all don't get so confused.
> 
> Disclaimer from previous chapters applies.

_Any truth is better than indefinite doubt._

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE,  _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

TUESDAY, 12th APRIL –  _Midday_

He stood in a narrow aisle stocked with the tackily coloured packets of cheap, artificially flavoured food. Bright lights pierced the air above his head, surrounding everything around him with a cold glow that was usually only seen in places like hospitals. A child begged his mother for sweets on the other side of the shelves, his voice getting more and more desperate. Edward wanted to laugh at him. Wasn't everything so simple, back then? Back when  _sweets_ , of all things, were the make-or-break of your day.

The mother dragged her boy away, up to the counter to pay, and still he screamed for sweets despite his mother's best attempts at getting him to shush. Edward wanted to scream, too, though over much more than sweets.

Just over eight hours ago, his phone had rung. He'd pulled it out to find that the caller – his brother, little Georgie – had already hung up.

One ring, then hang up. It was a pre-arranged signal, used only in emergencies if one of them thought they were about to be arrested. If it was a false alarm, they'd call back as soon as possible.

So Edward now held his phone clutched tightly in his hand, and, as the child screamed for sweets, he hoped for his brother's call. He wandered down to the end of the aisle, and down the next, away from the noise of the child and his mother.

It could still be a false alarm, Edward knew that, although the chances of this ticked away with every passing second. It was very possible Georgie was being held at some grim, dark police station right now, having been arrested and detained. Hopefully, he'd had a chance to dispose of his phone first, somewhere where the police couldn't find it, but where George could get it again if necessary.

Just then, he heard the sound of the door swinging open. A male voice said "excuse me, ma'am," and the mother answered "sorry." The child was quiet now, and a moment later, they were out of the shop.

Edward strolled down the aisle, his eyes scanning over the newspapers and magazines to his right. Broadsheet newspapers sat at one end, before the tabloids and then the magazines. Edward stopped at the tabloids, grazing them with his eyes, before stooping to pick one up. It was today's issue, from the date at the top.

He flicked through it absent-mindedly, not caring about the numerous celebrities the tabloid was naming-and-shaming this week with their half-false stories. A crime story caught his attention – if only due to how different it was from the rest of the articles – and he almost stopped to read it before he realised it was about the same painting everyone had been going on about ever since it had disappeared.

All the same, he scanned through it quickly.

COULD SHERLOCK HOLMES SAVE THE REICHENBACH PAINTING

Kitty Riley | 12th April 2011

_Just over two weeks ago, J.M. Turner's "The Falls of the Reichenbach" painting was stolen and, in desperation, its owners turned to amateur 'consulting detective,' Sherlock Holmes._

_Holmes's impressive knack for solving quick cases – undoubtedly why he, and not the police, was the first choice of investigator for the owners of the painting – is archived on his flatmate's blog, "The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson." Police and independent clients alike have been turning to the amateur to solve their trickiest cases for years. It seems that finding the painting would be incredibly easy for the likes of Holmes, and in fact a friend of mine is of the opinion that he would find the case boring, no matter how high profile it is – which is why, perhaps, he chose to hunt down London's newest serial killer, a case that was offered to him at almost the same time._

_Anonymous sources tell me, however, that the culprit for these murders has been caught, and it seems possible Holmes will turn to the Reichenbach case next; the pressure is certainly on him to do so. The question is, however, can Sherlock Holmes, impressive as he is, find the painting after giving the theif a two week escape period – and therefore a massive chance at getting away._

He stopped there, although there were a couple more paragraphs after it. His eyes lingered on the words  _London's newest serial killer_...could the article be talking about him and Georgie? And when it said the culprit had been caught... His fingers tightened around the phone he still held in his hand.

He took the tabloid with him, ignoring the shopkeeper's yells of  _"Aren't you going to pay, Sir? Sir? SIR!"_ and jumping into the front seat of his car. He remembered their newest victim, still chained up in the van, barely conscious but not dead, not yet, and a plan started to form in his mind.

He stared at the picture which took up most of the page which the article was on. If this man was, as the article implied, the reason Georgie had been caught, then something had to be done. And, Edward realised, he was close to Scotland Yard too. He was the perfect bargaining chip.

The plan evolved quickly, and Edward knew exactly what he was going to do. Smiling slightly, he stepped on the accelerator, and the car jerked into motion.

* * *

Edward's plan was perfect.

Everything was in place. The first thing he'd done was park the car by the entrance to St. Bart's, and set up his camera to stream footage to his laptop, in the van. He'd then driven the van to a street nearby St. Bart's and dropped his victim off, placing an anonymous call to 999 from a nearby phone box so he could be sure they'd come in time. He'd then driven the van away, watching the video footage for hours until he finally saw Scotland Yard turn up at St. Bart's. Holmes was with them.

He was planning to just observe today, to get as much as he could from what he could see, get Sherlock back on the case and possibly lead him into a trap later. But when Sherlock stepped outside the hospital, alone, guard down, a cigarette in hand, he knew the best time would be now. So he drove as quickly as he could to St. Bart's, and, pulling on his black ski mask and grabbing the sedation he kept in the glove box for emergencies, he jumped out of the van.

* * *

TUESDAY, 26th APRIL

"John!" Mrs. Hudson called, "there's a letter for you!"

John didn't respond, and Mrs. Hudson ended up having to climb the stairs up to his and Sherlock's living space – or just his now, she supposed – to give it to him.

"John," she said again.

"Yeah," he responded, looking up and reaching out for the letter. She handed it to him, watching him open it and pull the paper inside it out.

It was an article from a tabloid newspaper; the copious amound of colour used was consistent with the colour used by tabloids. A large picture of Sherlock took up the top half of the page. John's heart beat faster as his mind tried – and failed - to process the image. Instead, he sat there staring at it numbly. The mug in his hand slipped, pouring tea over the newspaper on his lap.

The picture of Sherlock looked exactly like John remembered him. A blue scarf was wound around his neck and his coat collar was turned up, accenting his cheekbones. His hair was a curly, messy mop on top of his head, and drawn across his face was a wet red 'X'.

It didn't take John long to realise the 'X' was drawn in blood.

* * *

Molly looked up as Lestrade came into her lab. She could immediately tell from his face that something had happened, that something was wrong. "What is it?"

He held up a newspaper article. Sherlock's face stared out at her from the paper, obstructed by a large red 'X'. "Delivered to Baker Street this morning," he informed her. "No return address. No way of contacting the sender at all."

She reached up, her gloved hand taking the article from Lestrade's. "It's still wet," she mused.

He nodded. "Fresh?"

Hope danced through Molly's mind, but doubt followed closely behind. Fresh blood would mean Sherlock was still alive. Fresh blood would mean Sherlock could come home. Fresh blood would mean Molly's analysis of Sherlock's finger had been wrong, off somehow...

Had she been wrong?

She shook her head, slightly enough that Lestrade didn't notice. Her analysis had been sound, she knew that. She'd checked thouroughly, holding out hope – foolish hope – that she'd gotten it wrong the first several times. Eventually, though, she'd been forced to conclude that Sherlock was dead, no matter how much she'd wanted to find the opposite.

But was there any chance that - ?

Molly cut her thoughts off before she could hope too much. She had to stay objective. She couldn't be praying for an outcome she knew to be unlikely. After all, there were other ways this blood could be hydrated and still not be fresh...

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she said to Lestrade. "After I've analysed it."

* * *

WEDNESDAY, 27th APRIL

Molly's eyes scanned over the results again. It wasn't as if she hadn't expected this... But still, these results were a fatal blow to the hope she'd held out since Lestrade had come to see her the day before.

"Molly. You said you had the results?"

Looking up, Molly saw that Lestrade had entered, followed closely by both John and Mycroft. The three men watched her expectantly, waiting for her to give them the news they, like her, so desperately wished would arrive. The news they'd come here hoping to hear.

She couldn't give them that news. Instead, she simply said, "I'm sorry."

Mycroft's face stayed expressionless, almost uncaring, but Molly got the impression that this was an act. It had become more and more obvious, over the past few weeks, how much Mycroft actually cared for his brother.

Lestrade's reaction was a simple aversion of the eyes and a slight change in expression to something a little less optimistic. John's eyes scrunched up for a second, until his face flattened out into a hard mask. His eyes were the only holes in this mask; emotion poured out from them. Hopelessness. Loneliness. Pain.

The last thing Molly wanted to do was continue, but she did. She had to get this over with. "It's definitely Sherlock's blood," she informed them. "There's trisodium citrate in it – that's an anticoagulant preservative. It stops the blood clotting. It's used in storage – not the best option, but not difficult to get hold of, either. I've seen it sold on ebay."

She took a deep breath, referring back to her page of results before she continued. Lestrade, John and Mycroft were listening intently, probably to find some loophole in her results, some way Sherlock could still be alive. Molly had already checked, though, and she knew there wasn't any such loophole.

"The pH is lower than usual – due to a build-up of lactic acid – and there's haemolysis too," she told them. "From the state of the blood, I'd say it's been in storage for about two weeks."

She didn't need to say that two weeks was the exact same time period that Sherlock had been dead. They all knew that.

"He's playing with us," Mycroft said. "He wants us to react. He wants us vulnerable."

Nobody said anything.

Mycroft was right, of course. McCabe wanted them to release his brother, and until he did, he was going to throw everything he had at them. He'd planned it from the beginning, that much was obvious. He'd killed Sherlock and now he was going to rub that in their faces until they couldn't deal with it any more, and then he'd promise that if they released George then he'd stop the taunting.

"I've got to go," Lestrade said. "McCabe would need storage facilities. I'll see if I can track him from that."

Molly nodded, and Lestrade turned and left. Mycroft followed closely behind; he would most likely be helping Lestrade out this afternoon, as he had been many times over the past few weeks. The door banged shut behind him, and Molly was left facing John.

"Molly," John began, and then stopped abruptly. There was a short pause before he started speaking again. "Is there any chance that... That you're wrong? I mean, not you, but your equipment."

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but before she could work out what she was saying, John was talking again.

"It's just that... I don't know. I thought maybe... Maybe there's still a chance. Maybe he'll still come home. Maybe miracles can happen, I don't know. But I hoped that this -" he gestured towards the article laid out on Molly's lab table "- was, well. It. The miracle. One more miracle to add to everything Sherlock's done so far."

Exhaling softly, Molly stepped closer to John and placed her hand just above his elbow in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "John," she said, "I want him to be alive to too. But I checked – I checked every test I did."

John shook his head, refusing to absorb Molly's words. "There's got to be some chance that he's still..."

"I don't think so," Molly said. "I hate to say it, John, and I hate that this is happening, I do. But..." She paused, gathering her answer. "The results I got from analysing his blood – it's consistent with when he died."

John wasn't listening. He was too busy going over every theory he'd come up with over the past two weeks, every detail that meant Sherlock could somehow be alive. "McCabe's messing with us," he recited. "He wants us to think Sherlock's dead. He thinks it'll help get his brother back."

"John," Molly said gently. "Remember the finger we found? You never asked why I said that was post-mortem."

"I – and?" John questioned.

"You're a doctor," Molly told him. "You know what an ante-mortem fracture looks like. There's signs of healing, cell regrowth, repair. I found none of that when I analysed Sherlock's finger. With a peri-mortem fracture – an injury that happens at the time of death – the tissue is still alive. It's not dry or brittle, so it splinters. Sherlock's shattered, John. It crumbled. The tissue was dead. It was post-mortem."

John looked down, but he had no response. The part of him that had clung to the tiny sliver of hope that Sherlock was still alive detached, and he felt it float away. He was left with only a reluctant certainty that Sherlock was dead.

Sherlock was gone. He was never coming home. The statements felt strange, kind of surreal, in John's mind, although he'd been saying them to himself for over a week now. Now, though, he knew they were true. He had no arguments. He had nothing to place his foolish hopes on.

Nothing except finding Edward McCabe.

Nothing except justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXAM HIATUS (SORRY, BUT I HAVE TO)
> 
> Unfortunately as I'm in Year 11, which in England means a whole bunch of exams in May/June on everything I've learnt in the past two years, I won't be able to publish any chapters until my exams are over.
> 
> Chapter Eleven won't be published until the 12th June. Trust me, I want it sooner, possibly more than you do (I know what happens in the next few chapters, after all...) but I can't get it out before then. Because exams. Sorry.


	11. The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not almost two weeks late what are you talking about ssh...
> 
> Okay. I'm late and I'm sorry but I'm publishing now so... Forgive me?
> 
> Hopefully I'll have chapter 12 finished by Thursday. It depends how much time I have.
> 
> Enjoy.

_Friday 29th April 2011_

_._

_Sherlock's dead._

_But-_

_Sherlock's dead. No buts._

_But-_

_No._

Lestrade sighed heavily, shaking his head to rid himself of his desperate, foolish, and somewhat annoying inner monologue. There were no buts. He should have accepted that by now.

He should be focusing on finding Edward McCabe, but there was nothing. No leads, no anything. The younger George had refused to say a word to him since he'd told Mycroft that Sherlock wasn't dead, and he was the only lead they'd had.

What if they never found Edward McCabe?

It wasn't the first time that Lestrade had doubted Scotland Yard's ability to catch Sherlock's killer, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. He knew, of course, that too many killers went uncaught and too many crimes went unsolved, despite the advances in forensic technology and the determination of the police. He'd seen his share of killers getting away, cold cases, crimes without a whisper of justice... He knew it was more than possible that McCabe would get away.

It was possible. But it would be a failure, and Lestrade was determined not to fail Sherlock.

He stood up from his desk and went to find Sally. It was only a little over an hour since he'd last seen her, and it wasn't likely she'd found anything since then, but he needed something to do besides sitting at his desk, sifting through evidence he'd been over countless times already and trying to find some clue, some significant piece of information he hadn't found yet.

"Sally," he said, walking into the room where she and Anderson – and also Constable Pecku, he noted with surprise – were surrounded by everything they knew about the McCabes' past and the events of September 1994.

"D.I. Lestrade," Pecku greeted, nodding towards him. "Sergeant Donovan thought it might help to put fresh eyes on the case, and I was available, so I came to have a look." He shrugged. Evidently, he was unfazed by authority figures.

"You find anything?" Lestrade asked him.

Pecku shrugged again. "I've got theories."

"Okay," Lestrade said, leaning forwards anxiously. "Let's hear them."

The younger man nodded. "Right," he began, as he walked over to the evidence board. "So. I think the most likely thing is that George lied to protect Edward. Right? So Edward did something – maybe to George, maybe to the other brother – that George thought would get him in trouble. So he covered it up, right? But whatever it was, George didn't forgive Edward at first. He got away from it instead, 'cos he asked never to see Edward again, right? Now, though, he's forgiven Edward, and they're working together."

Lestrade thought it over for a second. "Okay," he said eventually, "but what did Edward do?"

Without hesitating, Pecku pointed to a picture on the board; he obviously had an answer ready. "This guy. Their uncle, right? He refused to talk to the police, which is strange since everything else here indicates he's a pretty talkative guy. So I think he was protecting Edward too. Why? 'Cos he was proud of him. 'Cos Edward did what he wanted."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in confusion.

"He thinks it was Edward who killed Robert," Sally clarified, "not their uncle."

"So their uncle told Edward to do it," Pecku added. "And Edward did."

Lestrade thought about it for a minute. "If somebody killed my brother," he said finally, shaking his head slightly, "I wouldn't hesitate to tell the police. No matter who it was."

Pecku frowned. "Edward probably didn't have another choice."

* * *

John needed to  _do_  something.

Lestrade had banned him from coming to Scotland Yard, saying that he shouldn't be sitting around moping all the time. He was, after all, only getting in the way. His mind was too wrapped up in the fact that Sherlock was gone to be of too much use in the case. Not that the case was going anywhere anyway, though; Lestrade had promised he'd be the first call if there were any updates, and so far he hadn't heard anything.

This was so much different from the police procedurals on TV, he thought. On TV, every case was wrapped up within the hour, every crime solved in a miniscule amount of time. This was hours and days and weeks of waiting on end, with no end in sight, no sudden new leads to follow, no sight of justice on the horizon.

John wanted the people who'd killed Sherlock behind bars. No – no, he wanted more than that. He wanted more than what little justice the system could give him. He wanted a knife in his hand, he wanted Edward McCabe in front of him, and he wanted to feel the life flow from the killer's body, the way Sherlock's had most likely flown from him.

He wanted to kill the McCabes, both of them. Slowly, separately. Maybe he'd let Edward – the brother who'd actually killed Sherlock – watch his brother die in front of him, knowing there was nothing he could do to save his brother, that he was going to lose George the way John had lost Sherlock.

And then he'd turn to Edward, and the older brother would know what was coming for him, and finally John would get justice for Sherlock...

John pushed the image out of his mind. He couldn't do that, he knew. Then it would be him behind bars, because he'd be a killer too. If he was the only person affected, he might have thought it was worth it. But he thought of Mrs. Hudson, left alone in 221b, and of what expression might be on Lestrade's face as he made the arrest, and he knew it wasn't worth it at all.

Absentmindedly, John pulled his laptop towards him, and a minute later he found himself staring at his blog. It had been a long time since he'd updated it; he hadn't even looked at it since before Sherlock had been abducted.

It would be something to do, at least.

He clicked on 'New Post' and then in the title box. He watched the little vertical black line flash at him, urging him to type something in, but nothing came to him. He had no idea how to do this without Sherlock watching over his shoulder, making disapproving comments about the titles he chose, or his writing abilities, or anything at all really.

Eventually, he typed in  _The Impossible Victim_ , intending to start the story from the beginning with the closing of the case being almost immediately followed by the attack on Harris Beck.

He closed his eyes. Harris Beck. It seemed so long ago...

After a moment, he exhaled softly and opened his eyes again. Gritting his teeth, he shoved his emotions aside and focused purely on the story. He began to type again:

_We'd spent several weeks beforehand solving a case in which a murderer – or as it turned out later, two murderers – had killed three people before Scotland Yard made an arrest. The case had been closed only that morning and, as always, Sherlock was already desperate for another one. So when we found out that there'd been another attempted murder in the same style as the previous victims, there wasn't a question as to whether Sherlock would investigate._

_Once we got to the hospital where the victim had been taken, it didn't take Sherlock long to figure out that the killer had had an accomplice, and that this wasn't a copycat act. It wasn't from a detail that the police had never released to the press, as would usually be the case in this situation, but rather from the lack of a detail that had been released – a cut across the palm of the victim's hand._

_Sherlock then went outside for fresh air. Which shouldn't have been important, because it was just fresh air and it should have been forgotten after a few days, maybe even a few hours, because your friend going outside for fresh air isn't really memorable in the long run. Except for that one time. Bec ause that was the last time I saw Sherlock._

John stopped there, his finger freezing over the enter button as he processed what he'd just written. After a moment of deliberation, he backspaced through the entire last paragraph, replacing it with a single sentence.

_Sherlock then went outside for fresh air, and that was the last I saw of him._

* * *

After another hour or so, John had finished the entry. He'd typed up the story, complete until the ticking clock had marked the end of the time the McCabes usually kept their victims for – the time Sherlock had died, no doubt. He didn't have the words to explain what happened next.

He didn't bother proofreading his work – either that, or he was too emotionally drained already. He didn't know – and, after absentmindedly rolling the mouse around for a minute, he added a note to say he'd type up the rest later, and clicked publish.

He was about to close his laptop and try to find something else to do when he noticed a comment had been added to his last entry. He debated looking at it briefly – it was probably Harry or someone else, offering condolences he didn't want to hear.

A few seconds later, though, he found himself clicking to see the comment. He read it quickly, blinked, and read it again in confusion:

_Hello, Dr. Watson. I thought you might like to see this. Hope you find it in time._

Underneath that was a link to a website John had never heard of before, and the usual information about the comment – that the author was anonymous, and that it had been posted on the fourteenth of April at just past nine in the evening.

He hesitated yet again, but clicked on the link. It took him to what looked like a video hosting site, the background of which was a rather horrible green colour. A large, black box dominated most of the screen, with white writing sprawled across it.

_This video has been removed due to a violation of the terms of service. We apologise for the inconvenience._

This time, John didn't hesitate at all. His hand automatically reached out for his phone, and he was dialing Lestrade's number before he even realised what he was doing.

"John," Lestrade said as soon as he picked up, before John had even had a chance to get a word in, "we haven't found anything. I'd have called -"

"It's not that," John interrupted him. The events of the last five minutes played over again in his mind, and he tried to work out how to explain them to the detective inspector. "It's... Uh... I think I found something. I – we missed something. I think we missed something."

"What?" Lestrade asked, his tone sharper now.

John took a deep breath. "Well. Um. Just..." He thought for a moment. "Go on my blog. On the Baskerville entry. The last comment."

There was silence as Lestrade followed John's request. After a minute, the detective asked, "You think this was McCabe?"

"I – yeah. I do," John responded. "I mean, who else could it be?"

Lestrade sighed. "Okay. I'll ask the site to send me the video. Hopefully they still have it stored."

"I'm coming in," John informed him, surprising even himself. His voice held no question; he wasn't asking for permission.

"John -"

"I'm coming in," John repeated, more forcefully this time. He heard Lestrade sigh, but he cut off the call before the detective could make another protest.

* * *

"Okay," Lestrade said, "I'm pressing play."

It was over an hour since John had called him, and now he, John, Mycroft, Sally, Pecku and Anderson were gathered around the screen in Lestrade's office. The website had sent over a message half an hour ago ago, saying they'd already sent the video in for review by the police, but they hadn't had a response. It had taken twenty minutes for Lestrade to locate the video in Scotland Yard's archives, untouched by the officers who were supposed to have reviewed it, and ten minutes for Lestrade to yell at those officers for being almost a month behind their work.

The video started with a dark screen, but after a few moments the light flickered on.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock's arms and legs were attached to a rectangular, rusty metal frame which resembled the frame of a bed, but with the legs removed. He was covered in blood, and John tried not to even look at where it was coming from, but his medical brain assessed the damage anyway. It didn't look good.

Sherlock opened his eyes, the familiar blue-green mix focusing on something behind the camera – McCabe, John realised.

"Your friends better hope they find you before I need to use this," a voice said, and John realised with a jolt that this was the man that had Sherlock. Anger rose in him, heating in his lungs until they burned with it. "They might not like what they see."

The sound of McCabe's voice was unsettling, and yet nondescript. John had expected him to sound... Creepy. Sinister. Like a killer. But he just sounded normal. John shivered.

The camera moved closer to Sherlock, and a hand – McCabe's hand – reached out, settling in Sherlock's hair. McCabe wrapped some of the hair around his finger, twirling it as he began to speak again. "This is going to make a nice little present for Scotland Yard, don't you think?"

At this point, Sherlock pulled his head as far away from McCabe's hand as he could manage, which was followed by the sound of laughter. McCabe was  _laughing_. He found this funny. He was enjoying it... John felt nauseous.

"Oh, but they aren't even close to finding you, my little detective boy. Your friends don't have a chance..."

The lighthearted tone of McCabe's voice almost made John physically sick, and he turned away. He couldn't watch this.

He shook his head. He'd seen violence way worse than this in Afghanistan. Women, children, his fellow soldiers...

But this was Sherlock. His roommate. His best friend. He couldn't watch this.

He rushed out of the room, the door banging behind him, and the last thing he heard was "I bet John's going to love this, too," before he threw up in the corridor.


	12. What Happened To Doctor John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK! Hello again, y'all.. It totally hasn't been over a year since I updated this fic :/
> 
> I planned to update this earlier, but unfortunately I've had some personal things to deal with, so I'm very sorry about that.
> 
> Also, I've not been able to retrieve my old files from my broken laptop, and I don't actually remember a lot of the old plot. So I've come up with a new one, which is two chapters shorter and might not make complete sense. I apologise in advance for any holes.
> 
> And I've not watched an episode of Sherlock in over a year, so characterisation may be slightly off... :/
> 
> Basically, sorry for everything, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! I'm slightly busy at the minute, and I'm going to be away from home a lot over the next couple of weeks, so chapter uploads probably won't be frequent. But I AM going to get this story finished!
> 
> Trigger warnings – mentions of suicide.

_Sunday 1_ _st_ _May – Tuesday 3_ _rd_ _May 2011_

It was early morning. The sun crouched just above the horizon, and the trees were bustling with the excited chirps of tiny birds. The grass wasn't quite green enough for the perfect picture, but it wasn't too far off, and the amount of rubbish that littered the footpath was minimal.

A man sat propped against a tree, his eyes closed and his skin pale as a ghost. Red ribbons decorated his face and arms, but anything else was hidden underneath the t-shirt and jeans he wore.

Lestrade stared at him, his expression a mix of determination and puzzlement.

"John Abbott," Anderson muttered. "Killed in the exact same way as the others."

"Not quite," Lestrade disagreed. "Alexander, Bergmann, Kyle and Beck were all dumped in alleyways. And they were all completely naked."

Anderson frowned. "And Abbott turns up in quite a nice park, fully clothed," he finished. "Now that is interesting."

Sally came over just then. "No cut on his hand," she told them, "same as Beck. Everything else is perfect. Which isn't surprising, considering we already knew McCabe had him."

"Why wait this long, though?" Lestrade murmured. "McCabe kept him for over two weeks, and then dumped him in a way that almost shows...remorse? It doesn't make sense."

Anderson and Sally considered that for a minute. "Maybe McCabe and Abbott know each other?" Sally suggested eventually. "It would explain why McCabe wasn't as...harsh?...to Abbott as he was to the other victims."

"But it doesn't explain why McCabe kept him for so long," Anderson countered. "Besides, we didn't find anything connecting Abbott to McCabe when he first went missing, so I find it very hard to believe they knew each other."

"You have a better theory?" Sally asked, and Anderson shook his head.

* * *

 

The video had been a dead lead. It had been taken inside the van they'd already found, and there was nothing on the video to tell them where McCabe and Sherlock were when it had been taken. Even if there was, their crime scene was mobile – and it was very unlikely that McCabe was staying in one place.

The only thing that video had been useful for was worsening John's nightmares – it was now a regular feature – and for working out that that McCabe liked to use his local library to upload suspicious videos to the internet.

They'd watched him on the library's CCTV footage after they'd worked out where he'd uploaded it. He looked normal. Average, almost. Like anything but a psychopathic serial killer…

But that footage didn't give them anything, either.

And they'd been left with nothing.

John stared at his sandwich.

He was hungry, and he wasn't at the same time. He hadn't eaten since Mrs. Hudson had forced dinner down his throat the day before, and he was aware that he needed to eat more than he had been. But he never seemed to have an appetite any more.

It had been eighteen days since Sherlock's death. Something inside him was starting to nag, starting to say,  _you can't spend forever like this_. But somehow, pulling himself out of the gutter and moving on seemed like a betrayal – especially whilst Sherlock's killer was still out there.

Sherlock's killer.

The words didn't seem real, even now – almost three weeks after Sherlock's death.

His phone rang just then, and – upon seeing Lestrade's name on the screen – he practically dived for it. "What is it?"

"John Abbott," Lestrade said.

"The guy who owned the red car?" John questioned.

"Yep," Lestrade confirmed. "He's dead. We found his body this morning."

* * *

 

Molly had barely finished the autopsy when Lestrade burst in, followed quickly by John. She turned to face them, and upon seeing her face, both men knew she'd found something big.

"Everything's post-mortem," she announced. "At least, everything consistent with McCabe's MO."

"So McCabe didn't kill him?" Lestrade said.

Molly nodded. "McCabe didn't touch him until after he was dead," she told him. "John Abbott hung himself."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "And then McCabe made it look like he'd killed him. Why?"

"Less suspicion?" Molly suggested. "The more it looks like McCabe killed him, the more he gets treated like the other victims."

"And the less attention we pay to him," Lestrade finished. He looked at Abbott's body thoughtfully. "So – what's McCabe trying to hide from us?"

"My guess is, Abbott was more involved than we thought," Molly theorised. "If he went with McCabe willingly, it would explain how he had enough freedom to hang himself, since I doubt McCabe lets his victims just roam around doing what they like."

Lestrade nodded. "That would make sense," he agreed. "It would also explain why McCabe didn't treat him the same way he treated the others – he respected Abbott enough to leave his clothes on, and dump him somewhere that wasn't quite as...shabby."

Frowning, John spoke up. "So, what? Abbott was an accomplice?"

"It's possible," Lestrade responded. "Either way, he was clearly important in some way. I suggest we find out why."

* * *

 

Anderson, Sally and Pecku were all staring at the evidence board when Lestrade and John walked in.

"McCabe wouldn't have involved Abbott unless he needed him," Sally was saying. "Too many cooks spoil the broth, and all that. So – what did McCabe need help with?"

"What does Abbott give him?" Pecku asked.

The others considered that for a minute. "The car?" Anderson suggested.

Lestrade shook his head. "He could have taken that without taking Abbott," he reasoned. "Whatever McCabe needed, he couldn't have it unless he took Abbott himself"

After a moment of thought, Sally spoke up. "He was a doctor, right? So medical skills."

"Why, though?" Lestrade questioned.

"He might have been injured in some way, and needed medical attention," Anderson put forward.

Sally shook her head. "No, think about it," she said. "When did Abbott go missing? Around the same time Sherlock died."

Everybody stared at her, confused. "So?" Pecku questioned.

"So Sherlock was McCabe's best chance of getting his brother back," Sally clarified. "And George was right – killing him would be a dumb move. But Sherlock was injured. Keeping him alive would mean getting him medical attention."

"And McCabe gets Abbott to help him save Sherlock," Lestrade continued. "But he fails..."

"But why keep Abbott around for so long afterwards?" Anderson asked. "If Sherlock's dead, then what use is Abbott?"

Lestrade frowned, but it didn't take him long to work out the answer. "Abbott was never intended to be a victim," he replied. "McCabe doesn't see him that way, so he's not going to kill him. But he knew that if he let Abbott go, then the first thing we'd do is question him. So he isn't about to do that."

"Makes sense," Anderson concurred, "but why on earth did Abbott kill himself?"

* * *

 

Edward McCabe was getting restless.

It wasn't working. They should have released Georgie by now, but still – nothing. Surely, their genius detective was more important to them than this?

He'd tried everything, and he'd watched their responses carefully. They'd gone over every tiny clue countless times, and – to their credit – it didn't look like they were anywhere near ready to give up. The detective boy's friend, John, had gone to see a therapist. The brother, Mycroft, had eventually gone back to work, but he still popped up at Scotland Yard every few days to see if there was anything new.

But – as far as Edward was aware – they hadn't even considered releasing Georgie.

He was going to have to try something else. What, though? It seemed like he'd tried everything…

Georgie had always been intended to be the fall guy. Both of them had always known that there was a possibility that the younger of them would be caught. It had taken Edward by surprise, though, when he'd cared so much; he'd always thought he'd just carry on alone.

The first time he'd received the signal from George though – that first false alarm, when Georgie had been inexperienced and panicky – he'd realised that that just wouldn't be possible. He wasn't going to be able to leave his younger brother to rot in jail.

It was too late to change the plan by then, though. So he'd stuck with it. And Georgie'd ended up getting caught…

And nothing Edward tried to do to right that was working.

He groaned, and kicked the table leg.

He'd abandoned the van now, opting to hide out in the home of a couple who were currently on holiday in California. According to the calendar that hung on the wall, they wouldn't be back for a good week or so, so he was safe for now.

He glanced over at the sofa, where the exhausted body of his victim lay. The boy's heart was still beating – which, admittedly, was something of a miracle – but he was far from healthy. He didn't appear to be in any immediate danger of dying, though, which was good. He could thank Doctor John for that.

Doctor John. Edward sighed; he'd allowed that boy too much freedom, too much time, trusting in the fact that he'd be too scared to leave lest his patient die. The young doctor didn't even know his patient, for God's sake, but he'd done literally everything he could to make sure he survived.

And then, once the boy's health was secure enough that he wasn't going to die any time soon, Doctor John had killed himself. Edward still wasn't entirely sure why, but he had theories, and most of them had to do with his own treatment of the doctor. After all, he hadn't exactly been a gracious host. And he  _had_  manipulated the doctor into staying – that had to have some kind of psychological effect, right?

But the boy was still alive, and that's what mattered. His bargaining chip was alive, relatively safe, and mostly complete – aside from the stump where his left hand used to be.

That had been messy, Edward remembered, and there had been a few times he'd been convinced the boy was going to die. But Doctor John was better at his job than Edward had hoped, and the boy had survived. The tissue of his hand had died, though – which was all Edward had needed to convince his friends that the consulting detective was dead.

It was amusing, really, how easily tricked they had been.


End file.
